


Atlas

by darlingwrecks



Category: Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice
Genre: Angst, Childhood, Comfort, F/M, Smut, affairs are fun to write, and man did he have a bummer-loaded childhood too, back on my maddison bullshit, both sexual and otherwise, from chapter 7 and on this will get a bit smutty, if you watched Private Practice then you know Addison's childhood was BLEAK, it wasn't a one night stand, i’m flawed and I’m a wreck, maddison - Freeform, more like a 572 night stand because you know these two clowns were having a lot of sex, past Addison/Derek, privileged but bleak, somewhat shameless smut, there will also be some Mark-centric chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 129,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingwrecks/pseuds/darlingwrecks
Summary: There is distance and there is silence. Whether or not this is what she wants though, this is, really, all she has left. Sometimes the kisses cover the guilt. Mark/Addison (and Derek), New York, pre-Grey's, affair-ish (well, more than ISH). Includes flashbacks to Addison's (kinda bleak, if you watched Private Practice) childhood, Mark's childhood, and also works off the fact that the "he was just here" comment was not entirely accurate.
Relationships: Addison Montgomery/Derek Shepherd, Addison Montgomery/Mark Sloan
Comments: 78
Kudos: 25





	1. Swim Until You're Free

Addison breathes out slowly and feels the flush in her cheeks – now lightly freckled from summer mornings spent on the Long Island Sound – begin to disperse. _Finally_ , they fall off the wind and are able to move again, picking up speed as their sailboat slices through brackish water that glistens in the sunlight. The latest stall was Addison’s fault, of course. As were the previous two. She didn’t loosen the main sheet quick enough, so for the third time today the sails, which typically stretch like elegant parachutes under the Captain’s watch, started to flap haplessly, luffing in the sharp cut of the wind. _In irons_ , Addison knows, because you can’t sail _into_ the wind. And at nine years of age, Addison Forbes Montgomery is a shaky first officer on the best of days and a disastrous one on the worst of days. There is also no second officer today (well, if Archer were here, technically _she_ would be the second officer), which only makes things more complicated.

It's peaceful out on the Sound though. It’s a beautiful August morning, one of the last before Addison starts fourth grade. And it’s just her and the Captain today – Archer slept over at a friend’s house last night, and her mother doesn’t really care for sailing. Bizzy also had Garden Club this morning. Or something. Addison heard hydrangeas mentioned last night while she was being ushered off to bed by her nanny. She thinks it’s sort of nice though when it’s just her and her father. When they reach calmer spots and the Captain anchors for his own enjoyment or to stop to have a boat-next-to-boat conversation with friends of the Montgomerys who are inevitably also at Greenwich Point for the day, Addison is able to get into the water for a bit. She is contently doing just that right now, hanging onto the boarding ladder and letting her legs float out lazily behind her. She is thinking about how when they go to The Club for lunch after this (because they always do), maybe she’ll get a Shirley Temple again (with extra cherries, of course).

Addison climbs back onto the sailboat when she can hear the Captain talking to someone on the starboard side. She doesn’t really _want_ to get out of the water yet, but it would be rude not to say hello. She recognizes the woman’s voice and determines it’s the Pruitt family. They’re nice, at least.

“Hi, Addie,” Mrs. Pruitt says when Addison gets back into the cockpit.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt. It’s good to see you.” Addison shines a smile in their direction. She likes that they are the kind of parents who _mean_ _it_ when they say hello, and that when they talk to her, they actually seem interested in what she has to say – not all parents do. “And hello, Esmé.” Her gaze shifts towards Esmé Pruitt, who is a grade above her at Carrington Prep. The greeting Esmé offers in return is friendly enough, but Addison can tell she looks vaguely disappointed. Probably because Archie isn’t here. All the girls love Archie.

“I could see her raise the head sail from back near the dock.” Addison’s father is speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Pruitt about Esmé now. “She’s doing great. This one and Archer on the other hand…” he tips his head in Addison’s direction. “They’re breaking my heart,” he says with a billowy laugh. 

Addison adopts a small, if not empathetic smile for her father. She and her big brother – just a year older than her – have heard this plenty of times, so it’s not exactly hurtful. And there’s no denying the fact that it’s _true_. They can’t tack; they’re clumsy with the jib sheets and never get the timing right, and they never pull the main sheet tight enough or loosen it quick enough. They have been hit and experienced near-hits with the boom while jibing more than once. Archer even got a concussion one time.

“Well, they have plenty of other talents,” Mrs. Pruitt says mildly. She directs her attention towards Addison again. “You played beautifully at the recital last week, Addie.”

 _Not true_. She messed up near the end of Sonatina in G Major. She didn’t keep her shoulders down and her hands could have been more balanced for the last three bars. The mistakes were indiscernible to most in the small auditorium, but not to Addison. And not to her teacher. And not to Bizzy. _Or to Beethoven_ , Addison assumes. She played the piece for Daddy on Friday evening, since he couldn’t make the piano recital. He’s never made any of them, actually. She played it better that time though. He told Addison she did great, but to work on keeping her spine “neutral.” This surprises her; she didn’t think the Captain knew anything about piano-playing, but then again, he knows the human body, so maybe that’s enough of the same thing. That’s his job. She goes to New Haven with him sometimes and practices “surgery” on hot dogs in the back of the room while her father’s students mill around cadavers in the anatomy lab. She’s getting pretty good at removing the casing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pruitt,” Addison replies, because that’s what you’re supposed to say, always, no matter what. She makes sure to speak up and maintain eye contact. She gets scolded for not doing this enough, especially when conversing with adults. 

Addison waits patiently for the adults to finish talking. She thinks maybe she should try to speak to Esmé, but she can’t really think of anything to say. She’s gotten better about being more talkative with her peers – _stop being shy_ , Bizzy has whisper-snapped more than once – and she’s been working so, so hard on tongue placement with Miss Linda to get rid of her lisp.

(A “dreadful lisp,” according to her mother. And a few months ago, when Addison was within earshot, she heard her mother say to Mrs. Silverman, “Addie already has red hair and freckles. You would think that would be plenty enough ‘character’ for a young lady to have without throwing in a speaking issue.” Mrs. Silverman had laughed along with Bizzy, which was sort of a shame. Addison had always liked Mrs. Silverman and thought she was nice.)

Addison’s thoughts return to lunch again. Grilled cheese and fries. Or a burger and fries. She probably won’t decide until the last minute. She definitely wants a Shirley Temple though, and hopefully the Captain has a short memory, because she would kind of understand if he told her ‘no’ this time. During lunch at The Club last weekend, she blew into her straw on purpose, making pink bubbles float up. And Addison wasn’t quiet or subtle about it. Mostly it was just a rude thing to do (or “uncouth,” as the Captain said later), but she only did it because the waitress and her father were sharing a laugh and she didn’t like when her father put his hand on top of the waitress’s.

She just wanted it to stop.

  
. . 

. .

. .

. .

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays have the potential to be “good” days when it comes to the Shepherd marriage. Derek is usually at the hospital those days instead of at the practice. And today actually _does_ end up being a good day because Derek has some time to spare in between post-ops. He and Addison are in the cafeteria now, volleying recent surgical stories back-and-forth and discussing anything else that is surface-level.

“Hey,” Derek cuts Addison off when he sees Mark approaching from behind her. “How’s it going? You here the whole day?”

“Hey there,” Mark replies. He gives Addison a quick double pat on the shoulder and then takes a seat in the empty chair next to Derek. “Long time no see. I’m here until three or so, and then heading back to the practice.” Mark started his own practice shortly before Derek started his. It’s always been funny to Addison that when the men talk with one another about work, they always say _the_ practice this and _the_ practice that. She isn’t sure when it comes to the ownership of _the_ versus _my_ , if one sounds more arrogant than the other. Maybe it’s not arrogant at all, if Addison really gives it some thought. It’s just that this is Derek and Mark, and although they are best friends – brothers, really – there is no denying the competitiveness regularly brewing between them. “I’m also hiding at the moment,” Mark adds with a sheepish face.

“What did you do?” Derek asks. Even though it’s more likely _who_.

“Actually, I’m innocent,” Mark says. “I’m just avoiding a patient for as long as I can. Maybe not even a patient anymore. So, basically: husband wants to pay for breast implants for his mistress. Wife finds out about it and shows up at the clinic. Says if her husband wants to leave her, he can, but under no circumstances is he allowed to pay for this other woman’s surgery. Not now, or like…ever. I’m not sure how exactly that _works_ in a divorce settlement, but…yeah.”

Addison winces. “That sounds like a version of the _The Lady, or the Tiger?_ Did you guys ever read that one?” She watches as they both predictably shake their heads. “I won’t bore you with a long explanation then, but it’s an old short story about the daughter of a king who is seeing a guy behind her father’s back who’s not ‘worthy’ of her, and when the king finds out, he utilizes his usual form of public punishment: pick a door. So the boyfriend is brought into an arena to choose his fate. Behind one door is another lady, who the king has deemed an appropriate match – and the lady is also someone the princess hates. And behind the other door is -”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess it’s a tiger,” Mark interjects.

“Yep. And before the trial, the princess finds out the positions of the lady and tiger. She secretly indicates to her boyfriend which door to open, but that’s where the story ends. The reader is left to guess what’s behind the door she wants him to open. So it’s basically a choice between love and jealousy. Your situation just happens to be a more, uh, expensive version.”

“With more chance of follow-up work, too,” Mark murmurs, words clipped by the sound of a pager humming to life. Addison grinds her teeth to keep from sighing. Logic defies it, but somehow she thinks she would be less disappointed if _she_ were the one who was being paged and had to duck out of this lunch date early. It’s just too predictable that it’s Derek’s pager.

“The princess would pick the non-tiger door,” Derek says, rising to his feet and already slipping back into doctor mode. “Bye, Mark. I’ll see you at home, Addie.” And then he’s gone. No kiss. No smile. No actual guarantee as to if Derek will even be home tonight for anything longer than a quick shower and change of clothes.

Mark watches quietly for a moment as Derek walks away. “I haven’t seen too much of him lately,” he ventures.

“Mm-hmm. Join the club.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Sorry. You…you want me to kick his ass for you?”

Addison laughs wearily while she pokes at her salad. “No, but thank you for the offer. Since you’re here though – I was thinking about going to the Hamptons next weekend. I brought it up with Derek, and he’s actually on board at this point. Probably since it’s October – he hates the Hamptons year-round, but a little less when it’s not the summer months. Do you want to come, Mark? I was thinking we would leave in the early afternoon, if you’re able to finish up a bit earlier than usual next Friday. It’s been a while since we’ve done an Addison-Derek-Mark trio trip.”

“Seems like you’re asking not really for the whole spending time with _me_ thing, but because if I go, Derek is less likely to cancel?” 

“Well, yes…that, too. I know you hate fishing, but it’s so nice up there this time of year. And, you know. Lots of beautiful women.”

“All right. I’ll get back to you, but that should work…” Mark furrows his eyebrows as he watches Addison. She has folded a hand beneath her chin, knuckles wedged into her skin as she stares off to the side. “Red?” He prompts, drawing her back to the conversation.

“Sorry,” Addison replies. “I was just thinking…the princess in the story is described as ‘semi-barbaric.’ That’s an important detail. I think Derek’s right, that she made sure her boyfriend picked the door with the lady behind it. I’ve always thought that. It doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the _end_ of the story though. Maybe the Princess killed her father afterwards, because as long as he was living, there was no chance she could be with her boyfriend. And then she could have killed the lady, if the lady wasn’t willing to step aside.”

“Damn.” Mark grimaces.

“What?”

“Running away could have worked too, you know. That makes me think about that scenario that tells you if you have psychopathic traits. You know which one I’m talking about: a woman is at her mother’s funeral and meets a guy there who she thinks is ‘the one,’ but she forgets to get his number before he leaves. A few days later, the woman’s sister winds up dead…and you realize it’s because the woman killed her own sister because there was a chance the guy would come to that funeral, too.”

Addison smirks at him. “More likely for me it just means that I over-analyze things and think critically. I’m too WASP-ish to discuss them, but I have far, far too many feelings to be considered a psychopath. And I promise not to kill you or my husband.”

“Even though you’re probably tempted at times.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

  
. . 

. .

. .

. .

  
It will be eleven years of marriage next June.

There’s distance and there’s silence. That’s their relationship now. Their moment in the cafeteria this afternoon did wonders to lift Addison’s spirits, but it’s just a moment and it’s absolutely the exception now. The silence is the more unnerving of the two qualities, because they don’t even bother to fight anymore and for them, fighting was often _healthy_. They yelled and then rationalized and compromised. The distance and silence though – and hell, the indifference on Derek’s part – it’s been this way for at least two years now. Maybe longer, but it’s hard to say when exactly it started, because Addison knows she is not blameless when it comes to the fact that they have become more like roommates than husband and wife. They don’t really live _with_ each other now; the lives they lead are very separate. Addison just knows it’s something that’s happening, something that’s _been_ happening. She thinks of a line from her husband’s favorite novel: “gradually and then suddenly.”

Gradually and then suddenly is what guarantees an unhappy marriage. And what are the indicators of a marriage that’s gone bad? Well, Addison can certainly pick apart the “bigger” gradual moments or events that have likely led to this. It’s not one single thing. It’s several. And again, it’s not like she’s blameless. Five things, come to mind though, scattered like tide pools through the ebbs and flows of their marriage. 

One: she let Derek go the private practice route. Or, more accurately, she let him go _first_. It didn’t seem wise to Addison – no matter how much money she has access to – for them both to establish their own practices at the same time. The reasons why she didn’t push back a bit harder at the time now elude her. Derek’s career always does seem to come first though. She hasn’t thought about opening a practice of her own in a while now. That would just put more strain on them.

Two: the pregnancy “scare.” Not that there’s ever an _ideal time_ to have a baby when you’re a surgeon. That’s what Derek thinks, at least. And when this incident happened, at the not-so-young-anymore age of thirty-five, Addison didn’t necessarily disagree with her husband. She understood what Derek was saying, and although it would have taken her a few days or weeks to sort through the feelings, it’s not like she would have ultimately been _unhappy_ if she had ended up pregnant at the time – but she definitely didn’t feel ready. Medical school, residency, fellowship training, eighty-hour work weeks, single shifts that can last up to twenty-eight hours…fine, if you frame it that way, there’s never an ideal time to welcome a baby. But the thing is, had Addison not ended up getting her period a few days later, it wouldn’t have been _Derek’s_ career that would have been impacted.

Three: the “Amelia incident.” Her husband can be such a terrible big brother, sometimes.

Four: the genetics fellowship. They both knew if Addison did the fellowship in Medical Genetics, that meant no kids for another two years. But she _had_ to do it. The opportunity to learn more about the diagnosis and management of birth defects, developmental disorders, and genetic conditions – it would only make her a better doctor. Derek asked, of course, if her interest had anything to do with the fact that the Captain was, among other things, board-certified in Clinical Molecular Genetics. And this, of course, led to an argument, because at the time, they were still bothering to fight, at least. 

And then, moment five: the “Bizzy incident.” Not something she wants to think about right now.

Gradually and then suddenly was still something survivable though. Maybe all of these gradual things were just hiccups, temporary setbacks or frustrations that are typical of a marriage once it transitions from the unsustainable infatuation stage to everyday, ordinary love and respect. The current unhappiness did not have to mean Addison and Derek were going to drown and would not be able to save each other or their relationship. 

There is distance and there is silence, but in the end, it could have all just been static, really.

But then Addison fell in love with her husband’s best friend.

  
. . 

. .

. .

. .

  
Sailing. When you get down to it, it’s about vocabulary and knowing the wind’s relationship to the boat. Language and vigilance. That’s what Addison’s father has always said, anyway. It’s what keeps the boat moving forward.

As a little girl, it took Addison a long time to get the terminology down. The parts, the actions – all of it. So much of it is just ridiculous, like a made-up language shared between siblings, like a drunk trying to sound out a word at the end of a long night. Luff. Forestay. Keel. Clew. Halyard. Ahull. Again: ridiculous, and just further proof that people with money are unbearable. Addison remembers this coming up once with Derek, Mark, Naomi, and Sam in their final year of med school when they visited her parents’ country house one weekend. They were playing King’s Cup. Someone drew a Nine and they’d gone around for a bit, and then a competitive shouting match ensued when Addison said _clew_. They wanted her to drink, because Naomi – a few minutes removed from having her poor head over the toilet – had already said _clue_ , just before Derek said _grew_. 

Addison shook her head. “C-l-e-w. It’s the bottom back corner of a sail. Archer will be back any minute. He can tell you if you don’t believe me.”

“Okay, then…shrew.”

“Mark!” Addison turned towards him when he said this, wearing an expression painted with both amusement and offense, the usual reaction when the best friend of her husband (then boyfriend) spoke. “That is so -”

“Not _you_ , Red. Well, _sometimes_ you, yes.” Mark snuck a glance at Derek, who rolled his eyes, but did not necessarily disagree. “It’s my turn and I’m keeping it going. I think we can all take your word for the weird-ass sailing thing. So…second version of clue, then shrew, and now back to Sam…”

Anyway. An understanding of the language is necessary to be a competent sailor. And then there’s the thing about paying close attention to the wind. It’s broader than that, of course, because vigilance while sailing goes beyond just the direction of the wind. There’s a careful turn of the head to check the wake pattern, the feel of the mahogany and ash tiller under your hand, assessing neighboring boats, and an awareness of dropping into a different tidal stream. It is about complacency. You become part of the sailboat and the sailboat becomes a part of you.

The Captain is a great sailor and a terrible husband. It might be going on forty years, but his and Bizzy’s marriage isn’t a happy one. Addison is a terrible sailor (she waffles on the tense for this one, as she hasn’t been on a sailboat in at least ten years), but a good wife. A good, kind, dutiful wife. And the marriage itself is…well. She’s thirty-seven now. She considers that maintaining a good marriage probably isn’t all that different from what it takes to be a good sailor. It’s about language – communication, actually. And knowing where things stand. 

The problem, Addison thinks as she packs a suitcase for the Hamptons, is that she _doesn’t_ know where things stand. And there’s an entire cartography of untamed grammar she can’t bring herself to share about the loneliness. 

. . 

. .

. .

. .

  
She shouldn’t talk about her marriage with Mark. It’s not the Montgomery way. It’s inappropriate. It’s unseemly. And it’s not fair to Mark, honestly. He’s not her husband. It’s the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person. 

(And it’s undulating towards recklessness. Leaning on someone else as your marriage feels like it’s falling apart is never a good idea.)

But Mark brought it up first, somewhere along the Long Island Expressway. They were successful at leaving earlier on Friday afternoon in an attempt to avoid traffic. _They_ as in just Addison and Mark. Derek plans to join them tomorrow. Something came up last minute at his (the) practice. Addison knows the chances of him actually making it tomorrow are now fifty-fifty.

“Hey, uh…” Mark glances over at her, his hands wrapped loosely around the steering wheel. He offered to drive (knowing full well that Addison would be contributing in her own way, notorious backseat driver that she is), and she took him up on the offer. “I’m sorry things are a bit…rough right now with Derek.” He clears his throat awkwardly.

Addison presses her lips together. “I would say more than ‘a bit,’ and it’s more than ‘right now.’ It’s been going on for a long time. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m trying…but he’s _not_ trying. I’m not really sure what else to do.”

“He loves you, Red. He’s just kind of an idiot.”

“An indifferent idiot. And a selfish one.”

“Yeah,” Mark answers quietly. “It’s just…it’s probably not even _about_ you. It’s Derek being Derek. You know he’s a brooder. And about the perfect thing – yeah, you’re right, no one is perfect, but Addison, I gotta tell you…you’re pretty damn close. It’s kind of annoying, actually.”

“Thank you, Mark. For saying that.”

Having someone to talk to (and perhaps someone to talk to who _isn’t_ her husband, if Addison is being honest) makes the drive go quicker, and the conversation is how it always is with Mark: friendly, natural, freeing. It _should_ be this way, of course; they have known each other for fifteen years. It’s comforting though, and when Mark smiles at Addison after this last comment of his, she can’t help but contently beam back before turning to watch out the passenger window as Lake Montauk slowly comes into view. Boats are dotted along the water, bobbing peacefully.

If communication and awareness aren’t happening while tacking and jibing out on the open water, it’s easy to get hit crossing from low to high side under the boom. The impact can be enough to sweep a person overboard, to make a person drown under the literal weight of their careless choices.

That’s another thing about failing marriages and sailing: watch for the boom.

. . 

. .

. .

. .


	2. Only Hollow Rhythms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a long one (I did not plan for that to happen), but hey, we all could use a brief escape from this week, right?
> 
> I have fudged with a few timelines, because if it’s good enough for Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice writers to do pretty liberally, it’s good enough for me. :) The same is true with ages, because Amelia is truly the ageless wonder and I also don’t want to waste time tearing my hair out from trying to take a stab at the ages and birth order of Derek’s non-Amelia sisters??? And there’s also been some playing around with the “happenings” in Addison’s immediate family. That’s probably only significant though if you watched Private Practice all the way through – certain childhood scenes and questionable parenting techniques are pulled from dialogue in the show (referenced in the notes at the end). Also, the flashbacks are not all necessarily in order, but hopefully it’s not too confusing to follow.
> 
> Oh AND. I’m always bad about this part, so I’ll try to remember going forward:
> 
> Fic Title: comes from “Atlas,” a series of EPs by Sleeping At Last.  
> And Chapter 2 title: lyrics from the song “Pale September,” by Fiona Apple.

**Chapter 2. Only Hollow Rhythms**  
  
Addison’s parents thought she was going to be a boy. They spent most of Bizzy’s second pregnancy vacationing throughout Europe, and while they didn’t bother with much prenatal care, even in the absence of visible proof (namely, an ultrasound), they were convinced Addison was a boy. Bizzy and the Captain already had Archer Aldridge. Their second son would be just sixteen months younger: Addison Adrian. Another Double A.   
  
It always seemed ridiculous to Addison (adult, _female_ Addison) that, in the occasional retelling of this story, her parents never seemed to seriously consider that, sure, there was a chance they were right, but there was also a (fifty percent) chance they were wrong. Ridiculous. And remarkably stupid, even though her parents, by definition of being WASPs, were used to getting everything they wanted. So, Addison being a girl was a surprise. Not necessarily an _unwelcome_ surprise, but a surprise all the same. Bizzy and the Captain only had to make a slight tweak to her name: Addison Adrianne. Their last child. They only wanted to be parents to two.   
  
Addison was a toddler when she realized not all mothers are called Bizzy, and Bizzy isn’t _really_ another name for “mother.” In a lot of ways – the ways that count for something, at least – Bizzy isn’t a mother at all. She isn’t a friend though, either. More like a distant, snobby aunt you are forced to tolerate at Thanksgiving because you share blood. Bizzy once claimed she “asks very little of her children.” Addison as an adult would like to have a word about this (if she felt there would be a point, which there truly isn’t). As would Addison as a child, in retrospect.   
  
_Especially_ Addison as a child.   
  
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .

  
  
  
“Remember to use your whole body! You’re tap _dancers_ , not just tappers!” Mrs. Sobel calls out to her students this afternoon as they transition into their next exercise. “Watch Addie’s arms next time during double shuffles. And she’s also managing to keep her sounds smaller between first and last brush. Some of you need to work on that.”   
  
Such praise makes ten year-old Addison blush. She likes being the best and wants to be recognized for her hard work, yes, but she doesn’t really want to be called out like that. It’s now her third year at Mrs. Sobel’s Dance Academy. She rushes on occasion, like they all do, but for the most part, she has learned to slow down and produce clean sounds that flow with the rhythm of the music. Bizzy will be delighted to hear this feedback from Mrs. Sobel. Delighted – that will be the word she uses, Addison is certain. It’s different than feeling proud. And Addison knows a lot about the word _different_.  
  
The Montgomery siblings are quite different from each other. Archer is confident and outgoing. He is a good, protective big brother most of the time, so score another for the positive category there, but he is also a lazy, disruptive student (typically a recipient of the unoriginal “needs to apply himself” comment on report cards), a bit of a bully, is downright rude to their cook sometimes, and often butts heads with their father.   
  
Addison isn’t like that at all. She is quiet, good, “a complete joy” to have as a student, and well-behaved. She somehow seems to cause trouble for Bizzy just by existing though. Her mother loves her, of that Addison feels mostly certain, but she doesn’t seem to _like_ her. And it is always something. Bizzy is a _picker_ with Addison. She picks at Addison’s flaws, or perceived flaws. Addison is bad about making eye contact. She slouches while walking. She doesn’t position her napkin properly when dabbing at her mouth. She once yawned at the dinner table (made worse because they had _guests_ ). She is a baby about horseback riding. She is also a baby about the dark and tight spaces. She has hands like a boy (if that really is the case, what is she expected to do about this?). She makes “sloppy” flower arrangements (as would most ten years olds, assuming they make flower arrangements in the first place). She is too loud when playing inside. She is too loud when playing outside. She rushes through her steps while dancing – apparently not today though.  
  
The Level Three class is working through second position arms and other simple hand, flicker-ish movements at the moment. This, Addison has always been able to do with ease – she’s quite dexterous – despite the fact that Bizzy once said, apropos of nothing, that Addison has “big, peasant hands” (but then again, perhaps Addison’s alleged _boy hands_ were _always_ on her mother’s mind). Addison thinks about this odd comment while working through a series of Port de Bras exercises (Hayes Lohr, one of only two boys in the class, once had to be excused because he laughed himself silly upon hearing the word _bra_ ).   
  
And then Addison thinks about the permission slip tucked neatly inside her backpack. She likes dancing, and she likes Mrs. Sobel and the other instructors, but she figures she has to drop _something_ in order join the baton team her school is forming for the fourth and fifth graders. The uniforms are cute and the batons are sparkly.  
  
She’s not a quitter. Well, she _is_ going to be in this case, but baton twirling won’t start for a few more weeks and Addison is at least willing to dance at the fall recital, to see the commitment all the way through. She talks to Bizzy about wanting to stop tapping, and her mother doesn’t seem to mind much at first. Addison has piano and tennis, and Math Olympiad and French lessons. And Bizzy would still like her daughter to learn a string instrument within the next year. Fine. This is enough. But then Addison explains what she wants to do instead. _Absolutely not_ , Bizzy says, which shocks Addison; she demands to know why.   
  
“Because it’s _trashy_.”  
  
“But, Bizzy -”  
  
“This isn’t up for discussion, dear. You’re not joining the baton team and that’s final. If you want to throw away all your tap dancing lessons, fine, but over my dead body will you twirl a baton.”  
  
“I hate you,” Addison snarls. She stands there defiantly, the bun she carefully pinned in place before dance class now starting to unravel.  
  
“Fine,” her mother replies calmly. As though it doesn’t matter at all. “Go start your homework. Denise will be back any minute with Archer.”  
  
In that moment, Addison was a typical child scrambling to find words as dramatic as possible. It would be years before the hate she actually felt became less passive, less equivocal. Yes, she loves her mother, but she hates her, too. Same with her father. Love is complicated in the case of Montgomerys. Archer once said their family is like a bad Russian novel.   
  
Bizzy is cold and withholding. She was that way then, and she is that way now. But she’s also _weak_ , Addison feels. Why else would she have stayed by the Captain’s side all these years, putting up with all those affairs? It’s desperate and pathetic. Yes, Addison would ultimately come to understand that _there are two sides to every story_ has always applied to her parents, but _still_. Her mother chose to stay. No one forced her to.   
  
_I will never, ever be anything like you_ , Addison thought that day as a ten year-old.  
  
Funny how things change when you grow up though. Addison knows this now. In some ways, everyone eventually becomes the person they promised themselves they’d never be.   
  
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .  
  
  
Addison and Mark dump their bags in the entrance of the Montgomery-Shepherd home, and then head back outside. They decided when traffic slowed to a yawn along the LIE that the first thing they wanted to do upon reaching the Hamptons was stretch their legs. Mark is moving in Addison’s shadow, trailing behind her as she walks towards the end of the cul-de-sac in the direction of the beach. He slowed his steps with the intent to give her some privacy as soon as Addison announced she was going to give Derek a quick call to let him know they’ve arrived safely.   
  
Addison and Derek bought their Hamptons home a little over four years ago. It wasn’t exactly Derek’s _thing_ , real estate in the Hamptons, but he loved Addison and was willing to go along with her desire for a home on the East End that they could escape to from time to time. While Addison leaves a voicemail for Derek and waves distractedly to a neighbor on the other side of the road, she thinks about the experience of buying this home. They purchased it for several reasons, but none of the reasons ended up being because of their agent touting it as “an ideal setting for social and family gatherings.” They giggled behind Barb’s back at the clichéd phrases she used. Addison even remembers their exact exchange before they decided to put in an offer.  
  
Derek had shaken his head as soon as their agent was out of ear shot. “‘Raving about the potential for ‘gatherings’ makes me think of _House Hunters_ when the couple is super unlikable and they’re whining about how the last place they were shown doesn’t have enough room for _entertaining_.”  
  
“Right?” Addison replied. “Like, no one is coming over to hang out with you, Karen. Because you suck.”  
  
She blinks the memory away and glances over at Mark, who has caught up with her again now that she’s pushed her phone back in her pocket. “That was Tessa,” she tells him, referring to the woman she waved to. She and Tessa exchanged a look while she was on the phone that indicated they would catch up soon (probably over drinks), but Addison definitely noticed how quickly Tessa’s eyes and veneers-shiny smile drifted in Mark’s direction. “She lives a few houses down. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”  
  
“What’s her deal?”  
  
“Her deal,” Addison repeats drily. God, she’s so glad she doesn’t have to date anymore, or do, well, whatever it is Mark does. It just seems _exhausting_. “She’s married – in name, at least. Tessa and her husband live here year-round, but they have property in the city as well. That’s where the husband is most of the time, actually. He’s the CEO of something. Last time I talked to her, they were very, very much on the rocks. The husband is kind of an ass. Tessa is nice though. I’m sure you two would get along well. Just, you know. There’s the whole marriage thing.”  
  
“And what does Married Tessa do?”  
  
“Nothing. I _guess_ you could say Tessa’s a homemaker…but a homemaker with a chef, house cleaner, gardener, and once-a-week masseuse. She’s not much for volunteering or philanthropy stuff, which, no judgment, but that’s typically what the housewives up here do if they don’t have kids or don’t work outside the home. Mostly Tessa is involved in the nightlife scene, especially while Hal – the husband – is in the city. Hal is a jerk though and I doubt they share a bedroom when he’s here, so. Anyway. Do with that information what you will. Just know that I’m pretty sure Hal has guns.”  
  
“Good to know. Man, she’s basically a stay-at-home _person_. That sounds kind of ideal from time to time. What is it Derek calls these women again?”  
  
“Privileged Patties,” Addison tells him. Her husband is not wrong there. And of course Addison knows a thing or two or twenty-five million dollars’ worth about privilege.   
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .  
  
  
Addison meets Derek’s mother and sisters for the first time a few days before Christmas. She and Derek have been dating for a year (and three months) at this point. Med school has kept them busy – they have just finished fall term of their second year – but for all the grumbling Derek has done before about how nosy and annoying his sisters can be, he really, really wants Addison to come home with him over winter break. She is _expected_ (Derek used to laugh when she used this word, but it made a hell of a lot more sense once he met her parents) to be in Connecticut for Christmas Day, but Derek talks her into coming upstate with him first. Kathleen is bringing her fiancé and Nancy is bringing her boyfriend, so if _they_ are bringing people, it made sense in a way for Derek to bring his girlfriend, especially since they are _serious_. And at any rate, it cuts down on the amount of days Addison will have to spend with Bizzy and the Captain.   
  
Carolyn Shepherd seems nice enough. Addison says how lovely it is to meet her, while holding a hand out (she had an internal freak-out regarding whether or not to go in for the hug, but WASP-ness won out and she went with a three-pumps handshake). Carolyn accepts the bottle of wine Addison brings as a gift and seems to express gratitude (Addison confirmed with Derek ahead of time that his mother likes wine, but she instantly felt stupid for going with a Bordeaux that doesn’t quite belong in this Zip Code). And Addison can tell Carolyn appreciates that her daughters seem to like Addison – Amy in particular is utterly charmed by Addison, and preteen Amy isn’t really charmed by _anyone_. But Carolyn doesn’t really like _her_. Or doesn’t like her for _Derek_ , maybe.  
  
Addison and Derek come from different backgrounds, yes, but Addison still feels there is enough of a Venn diagram overlap that makes them compatible. They are both hard workers. They are kind, intelligent, and find a lot of the same things funny. They like the same TV shows and have pretty comparable lists of books they’ve read. They love school – they are complete and utter _nerds_ for science. They have bonded over high school band memories (Derek: saxophone; Addison: violin), older siblings who can’t mind their own business, and the fact that they are late bloomers in everything from relationships to love to hair products (Derek) and braces-free smiles (Addison). Derek has told her that he feels like he can really, really _talk_ with her about his dad, and about anything, really – he doesn’t feel that way with most people. And they like each other. Love each other. Doesn’t that count for something? What mother wouldn’t want that sort of happiness for her son?  
  
“Hey.” Mark pushes open the sliding door and joins Addison out on the back porch. “Out here alone?”   
  
“Yeah. Just taking a quick breather. I told Derek I was going to call Bizzy to check in.” She gives Mark a friendly smile and takes a hand off the top of the deck railing to wave him over. _A breather_. Derek’s sisters are lovely, but loud and talkative. Also, Addison is allowed to take breaks because despite her repeated offers to help with lunch, Carolyn has insisted she’s a guest and doesn’t have to help. And Addison doesn’t feel comfortable enough to insist that she can and _should_ help.  
  
“Same here.” Mark lightly bumps her arm with his elbow. “You took my spot, you know.”  
  
“Did we have the same childhood that makes it so that we need breathers when we’re around loving, functional families?” It’s mostly a rhetorical question, so Mark just tightly smiles his answer. Addison knows and Mark knows she knows. She has learned a bit about his lonely childhood in the past year (more from talking to Derek than from talking to Mark about it though). And said childhood is why Mark is here at the moment – not just in the backyard, but _here_. Like Addison, he is putting off going to his parents’ house for as long as he can.  
  
Addison inhales slowly, but can’t seem to shake the feeling of heaviness that has been lingering in her stomach all morning. “I don’t think Carolyn likes me very much,” she tells Mark.  
  
“Nah, I doubt that’s true. She’s just protective of her kids. Derek in particular, since he’s the only boy. And the Golden Child and all.”  
  
“She thinks I’m rich and privileged.”  
  
“You _are_ rich and privileged. But, hey – I grew up that way, too, and she likes me.”  
  
“But you’re not having sex with her son. Just her son’s sisters…”   
  
“That’s true. Wait…” Mark’s cheeks flood with color. Addison said the second part so quietly that he almost missed it. “Which one told you?”  
  
“No one. Just a lucky – though entirely reasonable – guess. If someone had told me though, I would hope it would have been Kathleen or Nancy. _Not_ Lizzie.” Addison raises an eyebrow. Liz is still in high school. And Amy, the baby of the family, is only twelve.   
  
“Of _course_ that’s the case – damn, give me a little credit. I’m not a predator. Anyway, it was a few years ago. And, uh, Derek doesn’t know about the… _encounters_ with Nancypants and Kate. So -”  
  
“Yeah, I definitely won’t be sharing this information with him. It’ll be our little secret.”  
  
Mark chuckles. “Our very, very dirty secret,” he says. This makes her laugh, too.   
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .

  
  
Addison is spirited away from her memories of that Christmas when she feels a nudge against her shoulder. Mark asks if she wants to head back to the house. It’s starting to get cold, and the pastel oranges and yellows of sunset are giving way to darkness. The last few lingering boats are slipping back into the harbor.   
  
“Yeah,” she answers. “We should head back. Sorry…I was zoning out there for a sec. I promise I’ll be better company. But…” she manages a small grin. “One of the things I _was_ thinking is that it’s funny seeing you in sandals.”   
  
“Genuine question: what did you _think_ I was going to wear to the beach, Red? Dress shoes and a leather jacket?”  
  
She laughs. It surprises her, sometimes, that she still can. “I guess not.”  
  
Yes, she is rich and privileged. She works hard though and the fact that she has enough board certifications to give a woman a pap smear, operate on said woman’s uterus, and perform surgery on said woman’s baby before and after the baby is born – only eight people in the world can do all of what Addison does – this is a testament to her work-ethic and brilliance. But, it is certainly not lost on Addison that when she was born, she was already standing on third base, and there was no pitcher to hold her on the bag.  
  
She’s rich in many things, but these days, love is not one of them.   
  
And being privileged doesn’t necessarily eliminate loneliness and pain.   
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .  
  
 _  
No one can hear you. No one is going to come save you._  
  
Addison shakes her head, trying to make the voice in her head stop talking, stop engulfing her with fear. “Cosy! Cosy! Cooooosy!” She tries again, but her efforts seem pointless; she has screamed herself hoarse. It seems like it’s been hours, but she tells herself it’s probably only been minutes since Patch coaxed her into her parents’ wine cellar and then shut and locked the door behind her. Has anyone even discovered she’s missing yet though? Cosy will notice, she _has_ to notice. But how long will that take?  
  
There aren’t any choices for Addison besides screaming and banging on the insulated door though. The room is starting to feel smaller. It doesn’t normally _feel_ small, but maybe the darkness is making it smaller. Because it is _so_ dark. There’s not any light in here other than what Addison can spy under the door frame, and the slight sheen coming off the wine bottles positioned on the iron racks. Tilted on their sides, the bottles almost look like ships floating in the Sound. That’s it though. The ceiling light works off a pull chain, and Addison is only seven. She is not tall enough to reach it.   
  
_Stupid Patch Gold_. This is all his fault. The three of them (because Archer was nice enough to let Addison spend time with them; he doesn’t always do this when he has friends over) have been playing hide-and-seek. Archer was the seeker, and Patch convinced Addison to hide with him in the basement. He said they should hide in _that room over there_ – and Addison knew he meant the cellar. They walked over together, and just as she was about to warn him not to touch any bottles (her parents would have been furious), he shoved her into the darkness and slammed the door on her. Addison could hear his sneaky laugh as he ran back up the basement stairs. If Archer has found him by now, Patch has probably just said Addison doesn’t want to play anymore and went to her room. Archer will believe that, and won’t think to look for her.  
  
“Cosy!” Addison wails again. She thinks she maybe hears movement on the stairs – a clopping sound that makes her think of the horses on their estate – but she isn’t sure if it’s real or if she’s just hoping it’s real because she is so scared. Addison knows from stories and movies and from real life that a lot of little kids cry out for their mommies and daddies when they get hurt. Addison knows if she really were hurt or in danger Daddy or Bizzy would help her, but neither would ever be her first choice when she needs a grown up. No. That would be Cosy.  
  
Addison is convinced that her current nanny will be her favorite nanny forever and ever. _Cosy_. Yes, Cosy is definitely Addison’s favorite nanny. And she’s also the one who has been here the longest. She arrived when Addison was around five and-a-half (after Sandra was dismissed; Addison would find out later that although Bizzy did the “letting go,” it was the Captain’s fault Sandra was asked to leave).  
  
Cosy is a nickname. Addison thinks it’s pretty. She also thinks it’s interesting that Cosy’s name can _be_ something, like an adjective – she is learning about those in second grade right now. It’s like Bizzy in that way. And it fits. Bizzy really is _busy_ and Cosy really is _cozy_.   
  
Cosy also doesn’t hover – Addison likes this about her. She’s involved with the kids, yes, but she also gives them space, especially when they have friends over. Which is exactly why the thing with the cellar was able to happen. Cosy was on the phone when they started playing hide-and-seek. She is close with her mother, Addison knows. And now the cellar is where Addison will be trapped forever. But then – _oh_. That _was_ Cosy on the stairs, because Addison can hear Cosy’s voice now and then suddenly the cellar door is being flung open.  
  
“Addie!” Cosy reaches out for her, and Addison starts to cry harder in relief. “There you are. Oh, Addie…” Cosy scoops her up in her arms, even though Addison is much too big to be carried around like a baby. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything is okay now.”  
  
“It was Patch. Patch shut me – Patch…” Addison tries to explain as Cosy carries her back up the stairs. “Patch and Archie and me were -”  
  
“I know. I’ll talk with them both. Patch shouldn’t have done this. I’m so sorry for how scary this must have been for you. And I’ll see who I can talk to about getting that door fixed. Doors like that should lock from the inside, not the outside.”  
  
“I love you, Addie,” Cosy whispers softly when they’re seated on the sofa. Addison is curled up in her lap, and Cosy doesn’t say anything about the fact that her feet are on the sofa – Bizzy would be mad if she saw this. But Addison’s heart flutters when Cosy tells her that she’s loved. No one ever says this to her. It’s implied, but rarely said.   
  
“What happened?” Archer appears in the drawing room. “Why is Addie crying?”  
  
And once Cosy tells Archer why his little sister is crying, everything happens so fast. Archer runs out of the room and punches Patch in the face, making him cry. Bizzy arrives home from her Chamber of Commerce meeting early – and Patch is bleeding and crying, Addison is still sniffling, Archer is standing there with his fists clenched and a face that indicates he has zero regrets about decking his friend, and poor Cosy is frantically trying to stop the blood dripping from Patch’s nose while keeping an eye on Archer and Addison.  
  
The whole incident, in Bizzy’s words, was _shameful_. The Golds are not happy that their son was punched, but once Cosy – with some indignant input from Addison before Bizzy shoos her away – explained what happened, they seem to understand. That was not good enough for Bizzy though. Something needed to be _done_. Bizzy asks Addison where Cosy was when everything was going on, and Cosy gives Addison a little nod, as if to say, _it’s okay, just tell her the truth_. So Addison does, even though she knows it sounds bad: _Cosy was on the phone while we were playing_. _It was just me and Patch in the basement._ And then Bizzy tells Cosy she is dismissed – she has a week to move out and she will be compensated through the end of the following month, but her services as Archer and Addison’s nanny are no longer needed.  
  
Addison is devastated. She blames Archer, who, to his credit, genuinely does feel bad. He says Patch deserved to be punched for scaring her like that, but he wouldn’t have punched Patch if he knew this would be the end result.  
  
Three days later, Cosy tells Addison she loves her and will miss her and that none of this is her fault. And then she hands the little girl a scrap of paper with her phone number on it. She tells Addison she can call her anytime she wants.  
  
The next nanny, Ellen, is nice. She plays board games with Addison once she’s done with French lessons, and draws little faces on the bananas she puts in Addison’s lunch. She’s not _Cosy_ though, and Addison doesn’t reach the level of closeness with Ellen prior to her departure (another fault of the Captain) that she reached with Cosy. She’ll never have that again with one of her nannies. She can’t even remember the name of the very last nanny she had. Something with a _G_ or a _J_. Addison was twelve or so when that nanny left (of her own accord, as far as she knows), and Bizzy did not hire another one. The kids were old enough now to mind and entertain themselves, and Bizzy could always use the older daughters of friends of hers if rides to activities or an evening sitter was needed.  
  
Bizzy found the scrap of paper Cosy gave Addison, and threw it away. So what was the point of getting close with one of the other nannies then? They could be cast away so easily.   
  
And it turns out you can also lose the people you love when you tell the truth.  
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .  
  
  
Eleven years after Addison is trapped in a wine cellar by Patch Gold, she loses her virginity to him. She went to prom with his younger brother, Skippy (Phillip), who, thankfully, was just as awkward and shy as she was. Addison’s dress was flattering and she was starting to grow into her figure a bit more, but she still had braces and the subtle lisp and not-terrible-but-not-great self-esteem. And they talked about _Star Wars_ the whole night: not exactly a recipe for steamy romance. But shortly before high school graduation, the braces come off and reveal a beautiful smile. And then more changes follow that summer: Addison gets to rid herself of her Carrington Prep uniform and shapeless marching band uniform in favor of tight jeans; she finds a hairstyle that works for her (yes, it was bitchy when Bizzy said that “bangs aren’t for everyone,” but she was sort of right); she’s gotten better at finding ways to keep the conversation going after initial greetings are exchanged; she realizes that talking to boys isn’t as scary as she thought it was; and she has time to slow down and have _fun_ because she no longer has to go one-hundred miles an hour with extracurricular activities and prep courses and volunteering to pad those college applications (she broke her father’s heart by selecting Columbia over Yale and thus bucking a long line of Montgomerys who were Bulldogs, but it was definitely the right choice for her, and she can just _feel_ the tension draining from her shoulders at the thought of not having to live in the same state as her parents).  
  
Mostly though, as shallow as it is, Addison has become pretty. Hot, even. The slightly awkward duckling with gangly limbs and a metal mouth has turned into a really, really attractive swan with toned legs that go on for days. And though it shouldn’t matter at all, Addison doesn’t want to go off to college a virgin. She’s done _some_ things, and dated a little bit her junior and senior year (the band guys she’s been with are nothing if not persistent), but she views her virginity as something to check off the list. So when Patch stops by to drop off some donations from his mother for whatever Bizzy’s latest charity is, and it works out that Addison’s parents are gone for the night and Archer is at Yale for the summer taking an Evolutionary Biology course, she decides today is the day. And she has to invite Patch in for a drink to escape the heat anyway – it’s only good manners.  
  
“So…” Addison states a few hours later when Patch joins her on her bed after a fair amount of physical activity on her parents’ imported chaise lounge. There is a _boy_ on her bed – a very cute boy who apparently wants to see her naked – which is truly something to marvel over, but she also finds herself thinking about the fact that the comforter spread neatly beneath them is so _frilly_ and she really needs to get more grownup bedding when she heads to Columbia at the end of next month. “You’re not going to trap me in here, right?”  
  
“Oh.” Patch looks disappointed by her question, but is quickly able to adjust his face, as well as his expectations. His words are mostly gracious when he speaks. “No. Of course not. Sorry, I thought…do you not want to…?”  
  
“I was joking,” Addison quickly clarifies. “Don’t you remember locking me in my parents’ wine cellar when we were little?” She giggles as she watches Patch – he actually goes by his full name now, Patrick, which feels funny to her for some reason – seem to think this over. His expression indicates that although this _sounds_ like something he would have done, it isn’t ringing a bell. “And don’t you remember my brother punching you in the face?”  
  
“Honestly, Addie, I’ve been punched more than once. I was a pretty obnoxious little kid. The most punch-able kid in the universe, probably.”  
  
“Well, we’re not little kids now.” Addison dislikes herself for saying this. It’s cheesy.  
  
It doesn’t seem to bother Patch-Patrick though. “No,” he murmurs, guiding a bra strap down her shoulder and pressing his mildly-chapped lips to her neck. “Definitely not.”  
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .  
  
  
“I can go pick up the food if you want,” Mark offers. “It’s on the left once I get past the fish market, right?” Addison called a local seafood restaurant to place an order for dinner a few minutes ago, and Mark gets the sense that she would probably like to unpack, or at least not climb back into the car just yet. And she likely wants to try to call Derek again.   
  
Addison flashes him a grateful smile at this suggestion. “That would be great. Thank you, Mark. And, yes. That’s where it is. Just don’t let the ferryboats distract you.”   
  
“Ferryboats are Derek’s thing, not mine.”  
  
“You tend to like a lot of the same things though. And if you want to fall madly in love with ferryboats, I’m okay with that…provided you get back here with my pan-seared scallops, first. You really don’t mind going alone though?”  
  
“No, it’s fine.” He reaches for the keys. “It’s a quick drive. Just have another beer ready for me. And think of things I can talk about with Married Tessa tomorrow.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need my help with the ladies!” Addison calls back. He has reached the front door by this point, and does some sort of gesture over his shoulder that gives her John Bender vibes.  
  
Addison gets another beer for Mark and then slinks her fingertips along the rack in search of a Barolo. Wine racks always make her think of Cosy. She still remembers her response the first time Cosy told her she loved her: “Oh. You do? I mean…I love you, too.” She used this same exact wording when Derek told her he loved her for the first time. Derek laughed at what she said, and then kissed her deeply. He thought it was sweet. Addison could feel her heart pounding in her chest between kisses. He loved her. She was _loved_.   
  
When her first year of residency at New York Hospital was winding down, Addison called in sick one day. Richard Webber, a mentor of hers, tricked her the day before with a baby who died on her watch. _It’s a lesson_ , Addison is told, because she gets too attached to her patients and needs to learn distance. It’s a cruel, cruel thing to do though, and she doesn’t speak to Richard for nearly a year afterwards. Derek was supportive of her taking a day off. He stroked her hair and assured her it wasn’t going to affect her negatively. And he said Addison was doing the rest of the interns a favor, really – she was universally adored by the attendings and more seasoned residents. _Maybe someone else could finally take the top spot_ , he joked, which made her giggle.   
  
And for some reason that day she found herself thinking about Cosy. She pulled out her laptop and tried to look her up. It took a while, because she couldn’t remember Cosy’s actual name, and she wasn’t sure she ever even knew her surname. And she didn’t have a phone number, of course. Bizzy made sure of that. Eventually though, Addison’s internet sleuthing proved successful. _Constance_. She thought again of adjectives. Constance “Cosy” Messina.   
  
Addison really did believe she killed that baby with the restrictive atrial septum. It turned out she was just trying to save someone who was already gone. She was disappointed to discover that Cosy died a few years before she thought to look her up. Per the obituary in the _Hartford Courant_ Addison found, her former nanny died from complications of ovarian cancer. Cosy was only forty-seven. Addison wondered, perhaps naively, if she could have saved her. She at least would have liked to have seen the scans.  
  
Eight years after Addison found out about Cosy’s death, Bizzy’s best friend and social secretary – Susan Grant – died of the same thing. Addison was almost thirty-five at the time. Her instinct is still to cut and she is a world-renowned surgeon who isn’t necessarily opposed to taking risks, but she is also realistic. The earnestness that buoyed her through medical school and the earlier years of her residency just isn’t there anymore, or at least does not fly as prevalently. She ran tests and determined Susan’s cancer had spread to her liver and major vessels. Her mother apparently “asks very little of her children” though, and with Susan’s agreement, Addison did try to do more than just make Susan comfortable. In a way, it once again felt like trying to save someone who was already gone though. And Susan’s death nearly destroyed Bizzy.   
  
Well, no. That’s not exactly what happened. Or how it happened.  
  


. . 

. .

. .

. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ————
> 
> Some references:
> 
> Carolyn Shepherd didn’t like Addison. She “hated” her :( (PP 2x16)
> 
> Bizzy wouldn’t let Addison do baton (PP 4x16). 
> 
> Addison did three years of tap at Mrs. Sobel’s Dance Academy and can do a mean shuffle (PP 6x01).
> 
> The Richard Webber lesson thing (that Addison later does on Izzie): (Grey’s 2x11)
> 
> Addison went to prom with Skippy Gold. She had braces and a lisp and they talked about Star Wars the whole time (Grey’s 2x27).
> 
> Archer describes their family as a “bad Russian novel” (PP 4x14) 
> 
> Re: “big, peasant hands.” Kate Walsh once described her hands that way in an interview for Redbook and I just??? When I tell you how hard I laughed – she is just a delightful human. Anyway. Thanks for following along!


	3. Gravity in an Hourglass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I feel like I should add – there will eventually be certain chapters and sections (primarily flashbacks) in the future that will be more Mark-centric. Also JK on this only being about 10 chapters. It’ll be a lot more, because I’m terrible at outlining.
> 
> Chapter title is from the song “Smell” by Sleeping At Last.

**Chapter 3. Gravity in an Hourglass**  
  
Addison and Mark are equal parts amused and disgusted with themselves when they talk about the fact that if they were still in their twenties, their Friday night would have just been getting _started_ at this hour. Instead, they have almost reached the end; they are tired and feel ready to go to sleep. Mark gets up to refill his water bottle, presumably a concluding task before he calls it a night, and while he does this, Addison stares out the sliding glass doors from her seat at the kitchen table. The sky is dazzlingly clear tonight. There aren’t stars like this in the city. Hell, there basically _aren’t_ stars in the city, not with the persistent glow of light pollution. It is beautiful in the Hamptons year-round, but Addison prefers it in the fall, and not just because the summer-playground crowds have thinned. Between the stars pinned to the blue-black foundation of the sky, the vibrant clusters of sunburst-colored leaves quivering on branches, and the pristine nature of the coastal landscape – it is all just stunning. And it is mostly quiet, this time of year. October in Montauk feels like a well-kept secret, sometimes.  
  
“When do you think Derek will get here?” Mark asks, leaning against the center island.  
  
“Probably a little before noon, depending on what time he gets out of the city,” Addison replies. Her hands are warm from the mug of tea they are currently molded around. The two glasses of wine that preceded the tea help with the warmth, too. And so did hearing from Derek, who confirmed he will be coming tomorrow as planned. “So…” she gives Mark a smile. “You’re at least spared from having to go fishing tomorrow morning.”   
  
Mark makes a face at _fishing_ – he hates it – but it is not the subject he elects to bring up. “You look sad,” he says, and it doesn’t surprise her. Mark has always been direct.   
  
Addison’s thoughts haven’t changed, even though what Mark says warrants a response: discussing her marital woes with anyone outside her marriage is inappropriate. This isn’t the same as complaining to Savvy about how Derek will ask where something is without bothering to look for it first, or venting to Naomi about the infamous Salmonella Thanksgiving from years ago. Those things were just _things_ , and what is going on right now is a _problem_. Plus, Addison’s marriage may be in irons, but Derek doesn’t deserve all the blame. She is busy too, and she hasn’t exactly tried to address the state of their relationship in a way that isn’t passive-aggressive or just plain bitchy. She and Derek haven’t discussed in _earnest_ what is currently going on with them.  
  
“I’ll be okay,” Addison replies, because it’s the truth, and it feels important to acknowledge that first. She lowers her head for a moment, breathing in the earthy scent of her tea. “But yes…I am a bit sad. And invisible. And I shouldn’t be _either_ of those things because I talked to my husband and he’s coming tomorrow, but sometimes I think I’m just…” she blinks up at Mark and tries to keep her voice steady. “Mark, you would…you would tell me if there was someone else, right? I know Derek is your best friend, but -”  
  
“Yeah. I really would. But there’s not anyone else. At least from what I can see, and I seriously can’t imagine…do you really think he’d cheat?”  
  
Addison shakes her head. Her father was – and still is, though she knows about it to a lesser extent now, thank God – a serial cheater. She knows the signs, doesn’t she? And Bizzy, well. This time she internally shakes her head, because she doesn’t want to think about that right now.   
  
“No. I guess not,” she admits. “You _did_ tell him once though that monogamy isn’t natural. Before the wedding, you informed him that God intended for you both to have many, many women. And…” her mouth furls into a smirk. “If those are in fact God’s expectations, Mark, then congratulations: you have surpassed them.”  
  
“Derek told you about that?”  
  
She giggles. “Oh, absolutely.”  
  
“Well…” Mark says. “Hopefully he _also_ mentioned the part where I said ‘Addison’s great’ or something to that effect.”  
  
“He did,” she confirms. “And I didn’t take it personally, for the record. I laughed when Derek told me. I know marriage isn’t really your thing, at least not yet, and I’m not making it look too appealing at the moment. But – it’s okay. Tomorrow will be better, and I promise to stop putting you in the middle of my relationship. And in the meantime, I can at least assure you that Tessa-down-the-street has no intention of being Mrs. Mark Sloan. Not legally, at least. That inevitable divorce is going to drag on for years.”  
  
“Probably not as long as the husband-wife-mistress boob job one I told you about last week. I’ll keep that in mind though. Well…I’m gonna turn in, I think…” Mark says, tapping his hands twice against the marble countertop as some sort of gesture of conclusiveness. “Oh, but Addison?” His lips part in a small smile. “Just so you know…I see you.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You said you were invisible. And I’m just telling you that you’re not. I see you. Lots of people see you.”  
  
“Thank you for saying that,” she replies, voice soft and lilting. This touches her.  
  
“Yeah.” Mark shrugs a shoulder. “Anyway. Don’t stay up too late.”  
  
The earnestness in this advice makes Addison laugh. “Thanks, Dad,” she chirps with sarcasm.  
  
“Hey.” Mark gives her a look of fake annoyance. “We just had a very nice bonding moment. Don’t ruin it by bringing up the Captain or Everett.”  
  
“Duly noted. Night, Mark.”  
  
“Good night, Red.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“She’s going to bring up the kid thing again,” Addison mumbles, failing to keep the sullen edge out of her tone. She has the sudden urge to kick at the glove compartment. It’s June – a few months before her efforts to get Derek to come to the Hamptons really picked up – and humidity is already creeping around them as they make their way north. “It makes zero difference that it’s Amy’s day,” she adds. “You know your mom will find a way to drop it in.” She is positively dreading the mother-in-law and (to a less extent) sisters-in-law comments that will come up this afternoon at Amy’s party. The youngest Shepherd has graduated from med school and is starting her residency at Johns Hopkins next month. Addison knows Amy would prefer to head off to Baltimore without any fuss, but Nancy and Liz pushed until Amy unenthusiastically agreed to a family-only party at her mother’s house.  
  
“No, she won’t. Like you said, today is about Amy. Mostly we’ll just all be holding our collective breath while waiting for Amy’s bull in a China shop behavior to start…” Derek waits for a beat, but does not actually expect Addison to engage. She thinks Derek and his sisters are too tough on Amelia. “Anyway. I already told Mom not to ask. I said we’re not ready yet.”  
  
Addison and Derek’s wedding anniversary is coming up soon – their tenth. Ten years together and zero children. Three of Derek’s sisters have essentially birthed litters, proving faithful to the Irish-Catholic background none of them really care about. There are eight nieces and five nephews. And Liz is pregnant again with her fifth. So of course Carolyn will find a way to bring it up. Addison is certain of this. _A bull in a China shop_. Fine. If they are talking in idioms, well, then sometimes butter wouldn’t melt in Carolyn Shepherd’s mouth.  
  
“You said we’re not ready or that _I’m_ not ready?”  
  
“Addison -”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” she interjects with a tired sigh. “I’ll be the bad guy no matter what. Your mother hates me. She’s hated me from the moment she met me and that’s never changed.”  
  
“That’s not true. My mother doesn’t hate you, Addie. I seriously can’t believe...” Derek shakes his head. “You really still think that? After all these years?”   
  
_Yes, because she does!_ Addison wants to scream. But what good would it do? “Sorry,” she says instead. “I’m just being...it’s okay. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your most recent surgery.” She knows that will brighten Derek’s mood. She doesn’t always mind that most of their conversations – the ones that are not tension-filled, at least – revolve around work. She loves Derek’s passion for his job. Even as a student, he was hopeful, sincere. It was always a beautiful day for cadaver dissection and to learn about the stunning complexity of the human body up close. It was a beautiful day to become a surgeon. And now it is always a beautiful day to save lives.   
  
The first Thanksgiving they spent together – they studied for exams and ate really bad Chinese food, because they were too busy and too tired to even think about cooking – was when Addison first realized how deep Derek’s passion ran. She was complaining about neuroanatomy (the one class she truly, truly hated), while her boyfriend couldn’t get enough of the subject. Derek talked about how unique the brain is, its enduring mysteries, how it is so unlike any other organ. It is responsible for movements, for words, for feelings, for thoughts, for who a person ultimately is – and how humbling and profound for a surgeon that a patient would be willing to trust a surgeon with all the things that make them _them_.  
  
Surgeries. That’s where it’s at. Derek doesn’t want to talk about his actual practice. Addison doesn’t think her husband _regrets_ going into private practice, but it definitely isn’t everything he thought it would be. The political side of trade-offs for operating privileges at certain hospitals, the managerial aspects, the insurance and expenses and legal and facility things he has a hired team to handle for him but said team is still constantly in his ear – Derek isn’t suited to any of that. Somedays, Addison thinks he would be happier being in the hospital full-time, even if that means once again being at the mercy of the churn and burn system.  
  
“Addison…we’re not getting any younger,” Derek says gently. Talk of surgeries clearly is not going to distract him. “I mean. You’re thirty-seven. And I’ll be thirty-eight in September.”  
  
She knows what he’s trying to say. She is long past her peak fertility, after all. There’s the cringe-inducing term of _advanced maternal age_. She knows the exact chance of getting pregnant per cycle if they were to try right now, in a year, in three years. There still _is_ time though. There’s still time for her to naturally get pregnant.   
  
She thinks of a line from a poem she recited in eighth grade: _learn to labor and to wait_.  
  
“I don’t want to wait forever,” Derek adds.  
  
“I’m not asking you to. But I’m not ready yet.”  
  
“But when _will_ you be ready? Take the career out of it for a second. When will you be ready as a _person_?” He asks, and Addison clamps down on the inside of her cheek. If he starts talking about Bizzy, she might cry. It’s been two years now. But still. So much of her past has been carried forward, and that makes parenthood a bit worrisome. “Do you feel like you’re at least _closer_ to wanting to try?”  
  
“When will you be home enough to try?” Addison shoots back. “You’re absent, Derek. All the time lately.” And then she goes for the jugular, but in a way it’s a question more geared towards attacking herself than it is him: “Do you even love me anymore?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“Can you at least look at me when you say it?”  
  
“God, Addison.” Derek’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he shoots her a quick glance, expression withering. “I’m driving. Do you want me to kill us? Yes, I still love you. You didn’t answer either of my questions, by the way.”  
  
“You didn’t answer mine.”  
  
“I said that I loved you. You’re my wife.” He looks over again, holds her gaze a moment longer this time. “Of course I love you.” The _of course_ part makes her want to cringe.  
  
“Before that. I asked when you’d be home enough to try.”  
  
“Because being at home to hear all your nagging and worrying about every little thing is so enjoyable,” Derek snaps. Resounding quiet follows. “Addison…” he inhales slowly. He uncurls one set of fingers from the wheel, and holds a hand out to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just…I just really want to have a kid. Kids.”  
  
_You meant it_ , Addison thinks. She is grateful that her Gucci frames hide the tears now glistening in her eyes. _You just didn’t mean to say it to out loud. And you want kids, or you want kids with me? Because there’s a difference._  
  
Addison slides her hand into his. “I do, too, honey,” she says softly. It’s true. “I’d like to…I’d like to revisit this conversation. But I think – next spring. Let’s start trying next spring. Okay?” This feels safe. She wants to be a mother, probably more than anything, but she also wants to feel _ready_ to be a mother. And maybe Derek will start drifting back to her, rather than away from her. Besides, what kind of mother would she be if she were ready for a child _now_ , while her marriage lacks meaningful connection and her husband is just going through the motions? It would be selfish to bring a child into this situation. _Of course_. Of course Derek still loves her, but that response was cringe-inducing because it’s autopilot, routine. It’s just playing the role of dutiful husband. And somedays, that just isn’t enough.  
  
She thinks of nautical flags streaming from sailboats. _Alfa/alpha_. It means there is a diver down, so proceed with caution; otherwise, there could be a collision.   
  
Derek grins widely at Addison’s proposal, at this sign of a truce in the wind. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
It pulls Addison back to their neuroanatomy textbooks all those years ago, the air sharp with the smell of uncapped highlighters and lukewarm egg rolls and all that dizzying lust for one another, their autonomic nervous systems at play even then.  
  
She will be thirty-eight next spring. Some days though, she feels so much older than that.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .   
. .  
  
Addison has to think about what happened to Bizzy in pieces. It’s too overwhelming otherwise. Even now, but especially back when it happened, when she was strangled in the thick of it.  
  
It has already been two years and it has only been two years.  
  
_Two years ago._ It truly was one of the worst days of her life. The worst, really. What else could possibly compete with that afternoon?  
  
“I think I’m…I think I’m traumatized.” Addison’s voice rises at the end, as though it’s a question, as though she really wouldn’t know the answer or be able to tell. She’s a doctor; the care she provides to patients is trauma-informed.  
  
“Of course you are.” Derek tries to be still, to just hold her, to stop wiggling his left hip against the mattress. The bed in Addison’s childhood bedroom isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s not _their_ mattress, so that in and of itself makes it uncomfortable. He doubts he’ll sleep much tonight anyway, but it’s not like his wife will either. “That was...look, the thing to remember though is that Bizzy and that she’s going to get help. I know it’s not really the Forbes or Montgomery way to ask for help, but it can be done. And it can be done discreetly.”  
  
“I know. And I know...Derek, I know she’s in pain, but just if...if Mark died...God forbid, of course, but I’m just thinking, like if it were Mark or Nai or Savvy or something...but if…if it were Mark, you wouldn’t...” she trails off, knowing he can finish the thought from there. Her eyes are shiny with tears in the darkness, and her husband’s eyes soon match hers.  
  
“No, I wouldn’t.” Derek swallows heavily. “I’d be devastated though. You would be, too. But maybe it was different for your mom and Susan. I’m close with Mark – he’s like a brother to me, you know that – but Bizzy and Susan were close too and maybe it’s just...different? Not to be stereotypical, but maybe it’s like…a sex thing?”  
  
Addison knows he means it biologically speaking. But it still cuts her to the core.   
  
“I think it’s a lot different. A lot different in how they loved each other.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Derek asks. Kind, thoughtful Derek, who knows what it’s like to try to save someone you love, who once breathed the life back into his hurricane of a youngest sister when she was legally dead for three minutes.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Addison replies woodenly. She can’t talk about it. Not yet, at least. “They were just close, I guess.”   
  
(In retrospect, the stress of this time was so powerful that it shouldn’t have surprised Addison when her period was late. And it shouldn’t have surprised Derek that she had mixed feelings about the possibility of being pregnant.)  
  
“Okay.” Derek’s lips sweep against the dip in her hairline. “Try to sleep a little. I’m here for you.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .   
. .  
  
  
He’s not here. And he’s not coming.   
  
A patient – Derek’s patient, who he operated on last night – just had a seizure. And the follow-up scans don’t look good. He needs to get the patient back into the OR. Addison gets it, even though her heart balloons with despondency and she just wants to scream. If the situation was reversed, of course she would have stayed to tend to her patient. This isn’t the sort of thing she can issue an ultimatum over, if it were to come to that – and it definitely hasn’t come to that. She doesn’t _want_ it to come to that, but something has to change. Derek would never walk away – not physically, anyway. There are days though, when Addison’s loneliness and feelings of not being good enough seem to thread deep through her veins, that she thinks maybe she could do what Derek will not, even though the idea of ending up alone is terrifying.  
  
It’s a cold morning, and far too early to be up on a Saturday, but Addison can’t bring herself to go back inside yet. She thinks about pulling her phone out of one of her pajama bottom pockets again. She should send Derek a text message at some point. She shouldn’t have yelled (hence why she went outside, because she knew she was _going_ to yell). And she definitely shouldn’t have ended the call when Derek was mid-sentence.   
  
Addison hears the rasp of the front door open, and the quiet shuffle of Mark’s footsteps pushing against the porch steps that are behind her. She gets the sense – even without turning around to look at Mark – that he already knows. Perhaps Derek texted him.   
  
“He’s not coming,” she says, voice cracking.  
  
“I’m sorry, Red.”  
  
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She shifts around to face him, dabbing her thumbs against the delicate, now-reddened skin under her lower eyelids.  
  
Mark shakes his head. “You’re not _really_ okay though.”  
  
“No. But…I will be.”  
  
“Do you want me to leave you alone, or…do you want a hug? There’s other options, too, if that’s not what you want. Tons of them. We could get breakfast…go to the beach and you can yell at me for deciding to get in the water…we can start drinking…write the next Great American Novel…you can introduce me to Married Tessa…” Mark smiles and offers a small shrug, knowing he is closer to getting her to laugh. “I can keep going if none of those are appealing.”  
  
“No, it’s okay…” Addison giggles. “Thank you, Mark. A hug sounds kind of nice.”  
  
There have been some hugs before. They hugged at her wedding reception. And at their med school graduation, there a combination of happy, celebratory hugs in their mutual circle of friends. There was definitely a hug or seven when Addison drank enough at her thirtieth birthday that everyone in a five-mile vicinity was getting hugged. And when they passed their boards. She hugged Mark when he told her and Derek that he was going to open his own practice, the first of the three of them to take that plunge. And she hugged him a few years ago when his mother died. Hugs really aren’t standard for them though, and she finds herself thinking that that’s a shame, really. The man gives good hugs.   
  
“You’re one of my best friends.” Addison sighs gratefully while she breathes in the scent clinging to Mark’s long-sleeved shirt. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. His head is dipped down, angled close to her cheek, and her words are light and breathy against the hollow of his throat.  
  
“You’re one of my best friends too, Addie.”  
  
“There’s a really good breakfast spot over by Ditch Plains Beach,” she adds. “We could drive there and then walk to the beach after and just hang there for a bit? It’ll be chilly, but as long as we wear layers, it’ll be fine. You can swim if you want, but I’m definitely going to yell at you first because it’s way too cold.”  
  
“Too cold for _you_ , maybe.” Mark says with his trademark stubbornness.   
  
Addison starts to pull away mid-laugh at the same time he goes to kiss her on the cheek. They are not well-practiced in their pre-hug and post-hug movements though, and Mark’s lips land dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. She almost gasps.  
  
“Shit. I’m sorry.” Mark’s cheeks instantly redden. He kissed her on the cheek mid-hug at her wedding reception. That one landed closer to her ear though, she thinks, or at least in an area that could be considered _safe_. Not like this. She could feel Mark’s stubble scrape against her bottom lip and chin (in a nice way, though she shouldn’t think that). “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”  
  
Addison shakes her head quickly. “It’s okay, Mark. I turned my head.”  
  
“This is what happens to me when I try to be _nice_ , apparently. Let’s, uh…” he laughs uncomfortably. “Let’s maybe not mention this to Derek.”  
  
“No.” She grins weakly. “I can’t imagine he would be too happy. Our secret?”  
  
“Our secret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this one. Reviews are appreciated and warm my heart!
> 
> References: 
> 
> Derek to Addison: “Remember med school? We spent Thanksgiving studying for exams and eating really bad Chinese food instead of turkey.” (Grey’s, 2x09)
> 
> Addison: “Do you love me? Do you?”  
> Derek: “Of course I love you.”  
> Addison: “Can you say it without looking at the floor?” (Grey’s, 8x13 – the AU episode)
> 
> Mark: “Addison's great, but one woman for the rest of your life? It's not what God intended. Especially for men who look like us. God intended for us many, many women, a staggering number of women.” (Grey’s, 9x01)
> 
> Addison: “This is the hot dog Thanksgiving all over again.”  
> Derek: “What?”  
> Addison: “You know. Your mother breaks her wrist, so the day before Thanksgiving, you invite 34 people over to our house, without asking me, knowing I've never cooked a turkey in my life. Your sister [Nancy] gets salmonella, and your mother accuses me of trying to kill everyone. And then you, ha-ha, make hot dogs, and you're the hero.” (PP, 2x16)
> 
> Derek: “It’s a beautiful day to save lives.” Every episode, amiright?


	4. When We Grew Up, Our Shadows Grew Up Too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song “You Are Enough,” by Sleeping At Last.  
> When we grew up  
> Our shadows grew up too  
> But they’re just old ghosts  
> That we grow attached to  
> The tragic flaw is that they hide the truth
> 
> (I’m doing a thing here, so most chapter titles will be by this band, but not all)
> 
> This chapter is more Mark-centric. It’s easier for me to write Addison, but I do enjoy writing about our favorite (male) dirty mistress. More of his backstory will come later, but here is just a teaser.
> 
> NYP = NewYork-Presbyterian. It bothers me immensely that there is no space in NewYork Presbyterian (known as New York Hospital before 1998 – one thing Private Practice did get right), but I don’t make the rules, so.

**Chapter 4. When We Grew Up, Our Shadows Grew Up Too**  
  
Addison is not the only one whose childhood was filled with loneliness in the margins. Her _adult_ loneliness probably trumps Mark’s at the moment, but he is certain his childhood melancholy could give hers a run for its money. It’s not the most charitable thought to have, but it is the one Mark finds himself contemplating as they pick a spot on the mostly-deserted beach. They spread out a blanket, and Addison casts Mark a doubtful look.   
  
“Mark…” she murmurs. It’s a weakened voice though, a relenting one. “Please be careful. Don’t dive, either. I’m not coming in after you.”  
  
“You know, years from now when someone brings up ‘that fateful weekend’ on _Dateline_ -”  
  
“ _Mark_.”  
  
“I’m kidding. Relax. I’ll be quick.”  
  
“You’re an idiot and it’s going to be too cold.”  
  
“You just had to make those _separate_ statements, didn’t you?”  
  
Addison peers up at him, large blue-green eyes shaded beneath the brim of a Bowdoin Hockey hat that belongs to her husband. “It was a conscious choice.”  
  
“Mm. I’ll be fine, Red.” Mark steps away from the flannel blanket and saunters towards the water, grains of pale sand lifting beneath his feet. “Hold my beer,” he calls out ironically, and Addison manages a short, choppy laugh.  
  
 _It’s harder to breathe in cold water_. It’s more a habitual recitation for Mark than it is a distinctive thought. It’s just one of those things he learned as a kid – from Derek’s dad – without really knowing the reason behind it or thinking to question it. Now he understands blood vessels constrict in cold water and certain physiological responses occur. Shock is really just the precursor when things go fatal. If you gasp as you go under in freezing temperatures, you can drown without ever coming back to the surface.   
  
When Mark was in fourth grade, he wrote briefly about what swimming in cold water felt like. He and Derek exchanged told-you-so smirks when Mrs. Lewis began the first day of school by having all the students write predictable ‘How I spent my summer vacation’ paragraphs. Mark and Derek suspected it was coming, but then Mrs. Lewis upped the ante by asking them to include in the assignment something they _learned_ over vacation.  
  
“Can’t you pick something else?” Derek grumbled when he realized Mark was writing about camping at Cayuga Lake. That was what _he_ was writing about.   
  
“I’m not copying you,” Mark said quickly. It might have been Derek’s family trip, but he was invited too, so he was just as entitled to this memory as Derek, wasn’t he? “That really was my favorite thing I did this summer. And I did learn something.”  
  
“Okay,” Derek said, shifting his gaze back to his lined paper. “Just…don’t write about fishing. That’s going to be my ‘something I learned’ thing. About brown trout.”   
  
“I won’t.” Mark never planned to write about fishing (he thinks it’s boring), but it seemed important to assure Derek he wouldn’t. Derek wasn’t particularly selfish about sharing his family with Mark, but he was an overwhelmingly conscientious student, so the idea someone might be _copying_ him was unacceptable. Mark gets it. They’ve been best friends since first grade, so he understands the things that make Derek “Derek.” _Shepherd_ and _Sloan_ – seated next to each other on account of their last names. _And the rest is history_ , Mrs. Shepherd often said while pushing a plate of cookies in front of them.  
  
 _It’s harder to breathe in cold water. You also can’t hold your breath for as long if you are under water and the water is cold_ , Mark wrote. During a pause between sentences, he succumbed to feeling a flash of annoyance towards his best friend. _You could have picked something else too_ , he thought. _You have more fun memories to choose from than me._  
  
Mark wiggled his pencil absently between his fingers, imagining himself writing down a different lesson from this summer (just imagined, because he never could or would actually write it). _You have to turn your mom on her side after_ –   
  
“Was it worth it?” Addison calls out when Mark collapses next to her, dampening the blanket and still locked in memories of fourth grade.  
  
Mark lets out a hoarse chuckle. “Not sure,” he admits honestly. Swimming in water that cold has activated his endorphins, but it was also pushing right up against the barrier of pain. That’s kind of his sweet spot though. And when he’s feeling a bit warmer and a little less breathless, he’ll tell Addison that there are actually some health _benefits_ to swimming in cold water. Should he start with the one about increased libido? Or finish with it?  
  
 _After_. Mark completes the memory in his head, tipping his face towards the sun peeking out behind wispy clouds. _You have to turn your mom on her side after she’s been drinking too much._  
  
That way she won’t choke on her vomit.   
  
That way she won’t drown without ever coming back to the surface.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
Mark frowns when he realizes his phone – set on his nightstand in the guest room – hasn’t been charging. It’s under twenty percent, and the hell if he’s not going to distract himself before bed with it. What else is he supposed to do? Just try to sleep and be alone with his thoughts? Nope. His thoughts are weird enough as it is at the moment. Everything from breakfast onward has been fine and basically _normal_ between him and Addison, but his heart about beat out of his chest after the accidental-almost-kiss this morning. It hadn’t really been _that_ weird. It was actually kind of funny, but then he _made_ it weird, didn’t he, by saying they shouldn’t tell Derek?  
  
“Hey…” he goes back to the kitchen, where Addison is finishing up her tea before she turns in for the night. “Partial power outage, I think,” he says when she glances up. “The light in my room isn’t turning on and the outlets don’t seem to be working. Hallway light is out, too. Where’s your breaker box?”  
  
A long pause.  
  
“Um…”  
  
“You’re a terrible home owner, Red.”  
  
“No – no.” Addison grins and shakes her head. “I know this one! It just took a sec. Hall closet. Hang on. I’ll grab a flashlight to hold for you.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
Nine-year-old Mark flips the switch in his parents’ bedroom, flooding the room with light. There are a few short, sparkly dresses scattered on the floor – Jenny must have had trouble deciding what to wear tonight. It feels like his parents have been going out more lately. It has something to do with shares in a nightclub. Mark isn’t exactly sure what “shares” means, other than the fact that his parents tell him to be in bed by nine as they head out the door to meet up with friends. Mark falls asleep in an empty house, but in the morning he is woken up by either Everett (who is getting ready for work) or Jenny (he isn’t quite sure what his mother does all day), who is smiling but sleepy-eyed, face partially concealed by a steaming mug of black coffee cupped in her hands. At least they are home in the morning. That’s something.  
  
That’s the last one. Every light in the house is on now. It’s another thing that is different between his parents and Derek’s parents. Everett and Jenny don’t seem to mind that Mark turns on every light in the house when they go out for the night. Derek’s dad doesn’t exactly get _mad_ if someone leaves a room and forgets to turn the light off, but it does always seem like Derek or one of the girls is being talked to about this. _It wastes electricity._  
  
Mark settles beneath his Yankees comforter and curls onto his side, certain that sleep will not come easy. His parents love him. He knows this. But they don’t seem to love spending time with him, and he sometimes wonders, if he were a dog instead of a boy, maybe they would have “rehomed” him by now. He imagines this is harder to do with a person, to give up something that came from you, rather than _to_ you.   
  
Mark was born in January of 1968. He has no way of knowing this as a small child, but as an adult, every once in a while it has crossed his mind that if Jenny found herself pregnant just two years later, when abortion was legalized in the state of New York, perhaps she wouldn’t have been pregnant for very long.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
“You okay, Addison?” Mark asks quietly while she aims the flashlight at the breaker box.  
  
“Yeah. I’m…” her eyebrows furrow when he looks at her. “Oh, yeah. I’m okay. I think _everyone_ is a little claustrophobic. Thanks for asking though. And I wanted to tell you – I’m going to stay up here a bit longer. I already talked to Derek about it.” Mark’s fingers pause on one of the breakers. They were planning to leave tomorrow afternoon. They took Addison’s car here (well, Mark did the driving; he hates how she drives). “I already took Monday and Tuesday off,” Addison continues. “I can take you to the train station whenever you want tomorrow though.”  
  
“Okay,” he answers evenly. What other response could he possibly have? “That’s fine with me.”  
  
“Sorry – I know it’s a bit last minute to change plans like this. I think I just…need to stay up here a bit longer and not return to reality just yet. I’ll drive home Monday afternoon. I promise you still have dibs on Tessa though. I won’t make a move on her in your absence.”  
  
Mark smirks teasingly. “I’m okay if you do, provided that I get to watch.”  
  
“You’re so gross,” Addison retorts. “Though, I suppose I have heard worse from you when we’re stuck in confined situations together.”  
  
“Definitely true.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
“At least we’re not interns,” Derek says with a resigned sigh. “Just imagine. We’d have gotten so much shit for this.”  
  
They did everything they needed to do as soon as the elevator made a funny lurching sound and stopped working somewhere between the third and fourth floors. Derek pressed the call button, alerting building maintenance that he and two colleagues are stuck. And Mark and Addison sent off a flurry of texts to fellow third-year residents and the Chief of Surgery to give them the heads-up that they are indisposed at the moment.  
  
Mark shakes his head. “I’ve got news for you: we’re still gonna take some shit for this.” He sits down beside Derek and Addison. There really isn’t anything they can do now but wait. “This has to be the plot of at least fifteen adult movies…” he adds, more to himself than present company, but still loud enough for his closest friends to hear.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes while Addison groans. “Mark…” Derek warns. “You’re about to be banished to the pee corner.”  
  
“We already have an established pee corner? It’s been, like, two seconds.”  
  
“I have established _that_ corner…” Derek points to the far left corner. “As the pee corner, but I’m hoping no one has to use it.”  
  
“Derek…”  
  
“Seriously? Already?”  
  
“No, Derek.” Mark tips his head towards Addison, seated on Derek’s other side. She has pulled her knees up to her chest and has gone quite pale. Derek is a good, kind person, but sometimes he can just so _unobservant_ , Mark feels.  
  
“Oh, hey. Sorry – I wasn’t thinking about…” Derek loops an arm over his wife’s narrow shoulders. “Just try to stay calm, alright? We’ll be out of here in no time.” He looks back at Mark. “When Addison was little, Archer’s friend Patch locked her in the wine cellar. So she’s not a fan of small spaces. Or being trapped in them.”  
  
Addison offers a smile at this. “To be fair, I think even people who _don’t_ get claustrophobic from time to time would probably lose their minds if they were trapped in an elevator.”  
  
“True,” Derek says. “How about you take your phone out and look at cute baby pictures to distract yourself? And I really will banish Mark to the pee corner if that will make you feel better.”   
  
Addison smiles wider at the mention of her goddaughter. “I’ll text Nai, too. She’s been up all night with a colicky baby. She could probably use a laugh.”  
  
“Wait, sorry…” Mark says. “Banish me if you must, but are we really going to skip over the fact that this kid’s name was _Patch_?”  
  
Derek smirks. “And his brother was _Skippy_.”  
  
“WASPs are so weird.”  
  
“Patrick and Phillip,” Addison tells him. “Patch and Skippy were just nicknames.”  
  
“Yes. Addison went to prom with Skippy. And Patch…” Derek trails off as Addison’s cheeks regain some color. He seems to think better of whatever he was about to say.   
  
Addison rolls her eyes though, and is apparently comfortable enough to tell Mark, “Patch was the first guy I ever slept with.”  
  
“You lost it to a bully who once locked you in a cellar. Doesn’t say much for your taste, Red.”  
  
She grins. “My taste has improved a lot since then.”  
  
“That’s debatable.” Mark can’t resist.  
  
Derek feigns offense and then smirks. “Go to the pee corner, Mark.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes,” Addison counters with a giggle. And both men know that she is the boss of them, most of the time, so of course Mark will listen to her. “You are hereby banished, Mark.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
In the dark of Mark’s bedroom with a phone that is now charging, he finally responds to a text message he received from Derek about an hour ago.   
  
_DS: Assuming my crazy wife has a plan for you to get home? Sorry about this. She just needs to cool her heels a bit and then she’ll be fine._  
  
Mark is certain that he has also called Addison crazy before. Probably more than once. And he’s definitely called his fair share of women crazy. It strikes him now just how _mean_ it is, how insulting. Especially when Addison is just trying to tell her husband how she feels. Yes, Mark suspects there are sometimes better ways she could go about it – she can be passive-aggressive and self-involved, sometimes – but still.  
  
What did he tell Derek once, at his wedding? Besides God intending for them many, many women…something about them being best friends. The exact phrase escapes Mark at the moment, but he suspects it will come back. Mark holds onto memories. Hoards them, really.  
  
Derek has been different for a while now. A year? Maybe two? It’s not like their friendship is “deep” or laced with discussions about their thoughts and feelings – an evening on Derek’s couch drinking beer and watching a ball game is their norm. But something is just _off_ with Derek. And it’s making his wife jumpy and sad and self-doubting, Mark thinks as he types out a response.   
  
_MS: Yeah all set. Taking LIRR home tomorrow. I will be at NYP on Thurs. Want to watch the Giants-Bengals game after work?_  
  
 _DS: Yes sounds good. Are they home or away?_  
  
 _MS: Away. It’ll be awful either way though._  
  
 _DS: True. Come over around 8._  
  
Mark sighs. That was incredibly easy. Is Derek not trying to do this with his wife? Or does he just not _want_ to do this with his wife anymore?  
  
People change. And so do plans, sometimes.   
  
Mark’s plans do.  
  
If he had just gone home Sunday morning, as discussed with Addison while he was bringing light back to the entire house, maybe everything that followed wouldn’t have happened. Months later, he is still mostly sure of this.  
  
And maybe he wouldn’t have fallen in love with his best friend’s wife.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Sunday morning brings broody, overcast skies and light rain. Pearly droplets collect leisurely on windowpanes, smearing the outside world as Mark works on tucking his last few items into his suitcase. He probably should have told Addison he’d take an afternoon train back, he thinks while coaxing the zipper around the shell of his suitcase. They are going to be cutting it close in order for him to make the next train.  
  
“Hey.” Addison raps on the open door of Mark’s bedroom. He’s about to respond that he’s almost ready, but she cuts him off. “How would you feel about taking a later train?”  
  
Well. He was just thinking about it.  
  
“Missing me already, Red?” He teases, looking up at her.   
  
“I _will_ miss you,” Addison tells him earnestly. “But. Well. You’re gonna laugh…”  
  
Mark does start to chuckle, even without the context, because it’s been fifteen years of friendship and he knows that particular voice and that expression. “Let me guess: there’s a spider and you need me to kill it.”  
  
“Worse. It’s a bee in the kitchen. So you might need to take the afternoon train, because leaving right now means I’m going to come back to a _bee_ in the house. Can you please get rid of it?” Addison makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, and Mark moves past her in the direction of the kitchen.  
  
“First of all…” he peers back over his shoulder at Addison and smirks. “A little compassion from you would be nice in the face of this guy’s homelessness. It’s probably a guy, and drones get ejected from the hive in the fall.”  
  
She laughs harder as she follows after him. “Oh my gosh…Mark, you absolute _nerd_.”  
  
“Yeah, trust me: I know. I have a weird amount of knowledge about bees. Anyway. Where is it?”  
  
“Over by the sink.” She points to the left of the faucet, not too far from their empty glasses. They each had a mimosa this morning (Mark judged the hell out of himself for having such a distinctly non-masculine beverage, but that’s what Addison was making, and he’s not young enough anymore to stomach a beer at nine in the morning) with cereal.  
  
“Okay,” Mark says. “Get me a cup and a plate to trap him with, please. And then look up the next train time. Unless…”  
  
“Unless what?” Addison asks distractedly as she reaches into the cabinet, trying to keep an eye on where the bee is as well.  
  
“I was gonna say that I could stay longer, if you want. Unless you want to be alone, that is.”  
  
“To protect me from all future bees? Or this particular bee, if he tries to come back?”  
  
Mark chuckles when she hands him the cup and plate. “I was thinking more if you want some company. This weekend went too fast,” he says. “I don’t have anything too pressing tomorrow, and I can get Lee and Burman to cover my consults. And then I’ll just head back tomorrow afternoon or evening…whenever you do.”  
  
Addison smiles hopefully. “I would really like that. It’s been nice having you here.”  
  
If only he had just taken the next train.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
When Mark is eleven years old, he walks across the street to get the mail (hoping to find the latest _Dynamite_ issue), and on his way back, he steps on a bee. Barefooted. It’s the first time he’s ever been stung, and he’s embarrassed for tearing up. He hops inside on one foot to inspect the wound. Everett is at work, and Jenny is out with friends. Luckily, he’s not squeamish, and the stinger is mostly exposed, so Mark is able to pull it out of the fleshy part of the bottom of his big toe. He watched once when Mrs. Shepherd removed a stinger from Nancy’s finger, so he sort of knows what he’s doing; he washes the irritated area with soap and water, and then buries his toe in a unopened package of frozen peas.  
  
He walks to the library the next day in search of books on a specific topic. He is now on a mission to learn more about bees. He has the time, after all. His All Star team got eliminated three days ago. It was a painful loss to Fulton Little League. A _preventable_ loss, Mark feels. His team blew the lead, but they were tied going into the top of the sixth. They just needed to hold their opponents, and then the top of the order – Mark in the two-hole – would be up. They really should have _won_. If only Mark had gone with the 6-3 play himself. Why did he bother to put any trust in his teammates? Fine, so he probably wouldn’t have beaten the runner to the bag for the force out, but he would have rather lost on _his_ terms, than how Syracuse National actually lost. He threw to Brian, the second baseman, who, instead of finishing off the easy double play to end the inning, was too slow getting the ball out of his glove. And Brian’s arm is nowhere near as strong as Mark’s, so of course the kid on the other team beat the throw to first, allowing the runner on third to score.  
  
The competitor in Mark is simply furious. And the child in him is disappointed that this is what the remainder of his summer will be like now: boring and lonely. Football doesn’t start until the end of August. True, Derek is just at sleepaway camp for a few more days, so things won’t be boring and lonely forever. Sleep will be tough though in the absence of gritty competition. Mark can always fall asleep easier after games.   
  
(He can still remember Derek’s horrified reaction when he got back from camp and Mark told him about the mating of drone bees: “Their _what_ gets ripped from their _what_?”)  
  
It’s hard to sleep alone though.  
  
He finds that this doesn’t really change when he grows up.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
“I figured you’d kill the bee,” Addison says, handing Mark her empty (third) glass, which he rinses out. They both have had two more mimosas once it was determined Mark was going to stay until tomorrow afternoon, and while neither is anywhere near drunk, Mark could definitely use a post-alcohol nap, and Addison is probably hovering near buzzed. Not _quite_ there, but just about – she can hold her liquor well, and Mark was surprised how even at twenty-three, she could drink Scotch so smoothly (she was the one who got Derek and Mark into it). “But apparently you have a thing for bees.”  
  
“Not as much as I have a thing for _mimosas_ , apparently,” Mark says, twisting a hip against the countertop so that he can face her. “I’m like a thirty-year-old woman at brunch.” He dries off his hands with a towel, and then sets it aside. “What is wrong with me?”  
  
“A lot of things.” Addison smiles up at him, looking happier and more relaxed than he has seen her look in days. Coming to the Hamptons is clearly good medicine for her. She is barefoot at the moment, no expensive heels in sight. This is the only time Mark really has a few inches on her, because when she’s in heels, they’re evenly matched (he has given Derek – who is the same height as his wife – a hard time once or twice for being at a distinctive disadvantage when Addison slips on a pair of Manolos).  
  
Mark taps her on the nose, which makes a cute crinkle line briefly appear. “I could say the same about you, you know.” He watches as Addison’s lips part open, and then slip closed again. “What?” He asks softly as the gap between them continues to shrink. The air feels heady around them, but he isn’t sure what to do other than to keep talking.  
  
“Nothing.” She blinks up at him, eyes rounded with more black than anything else at the moment. They have shared plenty of eye contact this morning, but it’s the first time he’s noticed that her pupils are dilated. Her teeth have sunken into her lower lip, expression thoughtful.  
  
“Tell me,” he insists.  
  
“I’m just…” Addison sets a hand on top of his. Her left hand. He feels the shiver of cold metal wrapped around her ring finger. “I’m glad you stayed, Mark.” Her words are close enough now that they feel floaty and dangerously warm against his mouth.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
She closes the remaining space between them and brushes her lips against his, just a quick peck. But then she arches, lips finding his again. It’s tentative and slow. But it’s also _wrong_ , Mark thinks. Even though it doesn’t _feel_ wrong.   
  
It feels amazing, honestly. Like they were meant to do this. Because if they weren’t meant to, it wouldn’t feel this fucking good, would it?  
  
“Addison…” he mumbles against her mouth between kisses that continue to be slow. Saying _Addison_ is almost like a warning, but he circles his arms around her waist, drawing her closer, and that can only be considered encouragement and nothing else. Fuck, he wants her. She jerks back suddenly though at the feel of his large hands palming the beads of her spine.  
  
“Oh, God…” she whimpers, burying her face beneath his chin. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay. Addison -”  
  
“D-don’t tell...” she chokes out, trembling against him as her sobs increase. Mark hugs her a little tighter in response. “Please don’t -”  
  
“I won’t. I won’t say anything. Hey, hey. Listen to me: it was just a slip. One slip, one time. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”  
  
She sniffles into his shirt. “How? I started it. Mark, I _started_ it. Oh my God, how could I -”  
  
“You also finished it. And I know better.”  
  
“But I – I _don’t_ know better?”  
  
“No, just. I just mean…I didn’t stop you.” Mark sighs. “You’re lonely and sad. And sometimes when people are lonely and sad they’ll look for comfort wherever they can get it…even if it’s the mouth of their husband’s best friend. So. It’s my fault, Red. Not yours. And it won’t happen again. Let me take the blame for this one.” He slides a hand back so that he can squeeze her elbow. “Addie, do you want…” he hesitates, trying to think of what to say, what could possibly make this better. “I can take you home, if you want.”  
  
Addison shakes her head quickly. “No, because – because I don’t think I-I can look at him yet. Not that he’ll be there, or even care that I’m there, but…”  
  
“Okay,” Mark cuts in gently. “What about if you go lie down then and just take a nap for a bit? Or take a bath or watch TV in your room or something. And I – I can always take a cab to the station, if you want me to leave. There’s still probably like two afternoon options and an evening one.”  
  
She shakes her head again and pulls back, stepping out of his embrace. “No, it’s okay.” Her eyes briefly take in the wet spot she has created on his shirt. “You don’t have to go. I just…you’re right. I think I’ll go lie down for a bit.”  
  
“Okay. I think I’ll do the same, and just – text me or knock if you need anything. No beating yourself up over this. It’s one time. That’s it. But, Addison…” Mark draws in a heavy breath. “I…I really am sorry.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
  
 _You fucking idiot._  
  
Of course Mark takes the blame. It’s easier, that way.  
  
He’s not all that benevolent though. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about her or looked at her before. He’s human, after all. And she’s Addison. The hair, the smile, the full breasts, the perfectly toned legs that go on forever – she’s fun to look at. She’s beautiful, really. But it’s never _meant_ anything. All men fantasize. It’s just dirty and hypothetical and Mark is borderline disgusting just by virtue of _being_ a member of the male sex.  
  
But then this happened. And the hypotheticals, the steamy imaginations – they don’t feel as ironclad anymore. If Addison had kept going, Mark is not convinced he would have stopped. His _brain_ definitely hasn’t stopped.   
  
He is positively throbbing under the blanket at the moment. There’s not a chance he can wait this out. And definitely not a chance he can fall asleep.  
  
 _Stop it. This is your best friend’s wife. This is your better half’s wife. This is your brother’s wife._  
  
He can’t clear his head though.  
  
She probably looks incredible naked. _Stop it._ She probably doesn’t mind – probably likes it, even – if her hair is lightly tugged on. _Stop it._ She probably has a lot of stamina. _Stop it._ She probably tastes good. _Stop it._ She’s probably pretty vocal, at least if you’re doing it right. _Stop it._ She can probably put that pouty, full-lipped mouth to good use. _Stop it._ She probably isn’t shy about asking for what she wants. _Stop it._  
  
Mark kicks the blanket off with an exasperated sigh, heading for the shower in the bathroom connected to the guest room. The water is punishingly hot once he’s stepped under the spray, but he makes no adjustments. He wraps a hand around himself and thinks about Addison as he increases his tempo. It’s quick and furious as steam envelops Mark while his grip tightens and loosens. The feel of his hand on his heated flesh nearly pulls an involuntary gasp from him that makes him think of _cold shock response_ , even though that isn’t at all what this is. Maybe he is drowning though, just in a different way. He presses his free hand against the slippery wall tiles in order to remain steady, groaning as he strokes himself to an overwhelming finish. He sees Addison’s face behind tightly closed eyes.  
  
 _That_ _fateful weekend_. Just yesterday at the beach – which now feels like several lifetimes ago – he made a stupid, stupid joke about this being a significant weekend. At that point it _was_ just a joke. Nothing was going to happen.   
  
No one was actually going to drown as a result of their own choices or mistakes.   
  
That’s not the case anymore though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> Mark talking about his parents: “I was raised by parents who weren’t very interested in having kids. They had friends, they had lives. They weren’t around much at night. And before I went to bed, I’d turn on all the TVs and every light in the house, even in the closets. Still couldn’t sleep. It’s hard to sleep when you don’t feel safe in your own house, isn’t it?” (Grey’s, 5x09)
> 
> I exercised some creative liberties with Mark’s parents. There could be plenty of things I missed, of course (and please tell me if I missed something), but my sense has always been that we don’t know much about Mark’s childhood, other than the fact that he considered Derek to be his family and his parents apparently weren’t around much at night. I see them as just very social, self-involved individuals who are borderline neglectful at times (without necessarily crossing the lines into substantiated general neglect).
> 
> Mark about Derek: “Derek and I? We go way back. We grew up together, went to med school together. He’s…he’s kinda like my better half. Not the better-looking half, mind you.” (Grey’s, 7x06)
> 
> “Established pee corner” is loosely based off a scene in The Office with Pam and Dwight.
> 
> Welp. Not a reference to anything, but definitely the first time I’ve ever ended a fic with THAT kind of male scene. Smirk slash cringe slash man that felt classless.
> 
> Oh, and the Bowdoin hat referenced – Derek wears that in Grey’s 7x10 when he takes Cristina fishing. It’s also where he went to college.


	5. Fault Lines Tremble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song “Earth” by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house.  
> But I put it out of my mind.

**Chapter 5. Fault Lines Tremble**  
  
It is late summer in Northwest Massachusetts. Seven-year-old Addison and nine-year-old Archer pedal along, babbling animatedly and trying their hand at wheelies (Archer is pretty good, Addison not so much yet) before they reach the vineyard about a half-mile from their country house.   
  
A brisk morning breeze flows down the green slopes, and Archer’s words carry along with the wind: _Ready, Set, Go!_ And then the Montgomery siblings are off, racing through adjacent rows in the flourishing vineyard. Since Addison is younger by sixteen months, she never, ever wins. She is competitive about most things, but she doesn’t really mind that Archer always whooshes past the end posts and reaches the bottom of the hill before she does. Most of the fun is just in _riding_ with her brother. It’s pretty and peaceful at this time of day. Grapevines are knotted elegantly around trellis wires, with sweet grapes hanging low as they continue to ripen.   
  
(Archer’s bike – a cherry red Schwinn Sting-Ray Fastback – is more suited for speed, anyway. Addison’s bike is a simple Huffy model with silver and purple streamers. She loves it though.)  
  
Addison opens her mouth in a delighted yell as she starts to descend the hill – she can hear Archer the next row over, definitely at least ten feet ahead of her – but then something _happens_ as Addison gets closer to the bottom. She doesn’t know what, exactly, but suddenly she is in the air, careening over her rubbery handlebars. It happens so quickly that she doesn’t have time to try and protect herself. Her previous sound of excitement shifts into a scream so loud that she almost doesn’t recognize the noise as one coming from her. Addison hits the ground hard enough that she is certain she sees fuzzy stars while she slips a few feet further down the hill, dirt and morning dew muddying her clothes. Real stars. Just like what happens in cartoons. Addison’s hands hurt the most – they _sting_ – but her face and knees hurt too. She shakily looks behind her and realizes that her front tire is no longer on her bike. _Oh._ _That’s why I fell off_ , she thinks as she pulls herself into a sitting position. The initial shock has worn off though, and now tears are coming hard and fast. She cries out for her brother, feeling her voice go shuddery and shrill like a whinnying horse. Archer must have heard the crash, and he must have reached the bottom of the hill by now. The spokes on Addison’s runaway wheel sparkle in the sunlight.   
  
“Addie!” Archer calls, appearing from behind a cluster of grapes. He sprints towards her, arms pumping hard. “Oh, Addie.” He kneels down in the dirt beside her. “It’s okay.”  
  
“I’m bleeding.” Addison’s fingers tremble when she sees how dotted with blood they are, and not just from the scratches on the heels of her hands. She panics, realizing most of the blood on her hands is the result of touching her face. “Archie, I’m _bleeding_.”  
  
“Yeah, but…” he hesitates, trying to think how to explain it to his little sister without causing more panic. _They really are just scrapes. Just…you know. On your entire face_. “It isn’t too bad, Addie. Really. It’s like falling and getting a cut on your knee. It bleeds a little, but then in a few days you can’t even see the cut anymore. It’s like that.”  
  
“I _am_ cut on my knees.” Addison points to a scraped-up knee. “On my knees _and_ on my face. And my hands. And my…my bike…the wheel…” she starts to cry harder. “Archer…”  
  
“It’s gonna be okay.” Archer scoops her up in his arms, teetering for only a moment before his grip feels steady. Addison clings to Archer for support, not unlike the tendrils behind her clinging to the trellises.   
  
“Archie…”  
  
“It’s gonna be okay,” he repeats. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna carry you home, and Ellen can clean you up. And Un-Bizzy will pay for someone to come back here and fix your bike. Or she’ll just buy you a new one.”  
  
_Un-Bizzy_. It’s a current joke between brother and sister, the result of Bizzy’s penchant for referring to the things that her children are or the things that her children do as un-something. Unhelpful. Unacceptable. Unbecoming. Unseemly – that was a new one, just yesterday. It’s always some sort of accusation.  
  
Addison manages a weak laugh at _Un-Bizzy_ , and finds herself a little bit thrilled that she is still _able_ to laugh. That was so, so scary to fall off her bike like that – she thinks it is maybe even scarier than when Patch locked her in the cellar a few months ago.   
  
She is starting to feel safe in her brother’s arms though. She is certain her mother will make some sort of comment about the scratches all over her, especially the ones on her face – how _unseemly_ it would be, for example, if Addison were to have scars – but Addison knows Archer will say that it wasn’t her fault, and that he will stay by her side no matter what.   
  
Archer kneels down about halfway up the hill, gasping for breath. “We going to make it,” he says when Addison lets out a fresh whimper, once again worried. “I just need to rest my arms and legs for a second. It’ll be easier once we get to the top of the hill.”  
  
“I bet…” Addison smiles shyly, feeling more reassured. “I bet even Captain America has to rest sometimes too,” she tells Archer. Captain America is his favorite superhero.  
  
Addison marvels at her brother’s strength and bravery in this moment. Archer really isn’t much bigger than her, but he carries her the rest of the way. He carries her home.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

  
Mark offered to drive Addison back to the brownstone – but Addison is in no state to face her husband, or, if Derek isn’t home, is in no state to feel like a stranger in her home. Because she _is_ a stranger now, right? She does not recognize this version of herself. And then when she declined, Mark himself offered to leave, which might have been for the best, but Addison couldn’t actually tell him to go get on the next train. That would be, well. _Unseemly_. Mark is a guest. And no matter what he says, this is _absolutely_ her fault.  
  
For the second time, Addison reads the text Mark sent her: _Hey. Hopefully this doesn’t wake you. Just wanted you to know I’m going on a quick bike ride. Won’t be long._  
  
It has been about an hour since they went to their separate bedrooms. Addison has been curled tightly under the covers ever since. She heard Mark shuffling around for a bit, and then the sound of the shower running. And then there was more movement, which she now knows was Mark changing into clothes for a bike ride.   
  
Mark wanted to bring his bike this weekend, and was even willing to take the wheels off so it could fit in Addison’s trunk, but she waved a hand in dismissal at this. “Derek has a bike in the garage at the Montauk house,” she told him on Friday. “You can borrow it.”   
  
_More appropriate than borrowing his wife, at any rate_ , Addison thinks in a desperate reach for humor, or at least some Schadenfreude at her own expense. But once again, she feels her throat tighten. Tears hover on her lower lids.   
  
_How could you do this to your husband?_ she thinks, despair tunneling through her. _With his best friend. It’s cruel. Formulaic and cruel. And not unlike your own parents._  
  
Addison moves cautiously to the window and pinches one of the linen curtains to the side when she hears the muffled noise of the front door opening and closing. The rain has finally cleared. She gets to the window in time to watch Mark hoist himself on Derek’s bike and ride off. She notices the definition of his thighs through his bike shorts – powerful thighs, she is certain. A flush works its way over her cheeks at this thought. Of course Addison is _aware_ of what Mark looks like. She and Naomi shamelessly stared the first time their group went to Brighton Beach and Mark took his shirt off. Addison introduced Mark to Savvy a few weeks after this, and Savvy jokingly told Addison she was going to leave Weiss for him. Yes. Mark has a certain… _effect_ on women. But Addison was never one of those women. She thought he was attractive, certainly – he was standing next to Derek the first time she met her future husband’s eyes over the cadaver they were gathered around. And, unlike poor Mr. Mulligan, Addison’s eyes still worked. Thinking Mark was good-looking was no different than looking at a picture of a waterfall: it’s just a visually pleasing image, and that’s a fact. Addison was never giggly or nervous around him though. He was just…Mark. Derek’s friend. Derek’s sort of annoying, arrogant friend, yes – but then he grew on her, and now they are friends, too. Family, even. She definitely considers Mark to be family of some sort. But what is he to her _now_? She can’t just unring this bell.  
  
Addison takes a shower while Mark is out on his ride _– were you doing what I did when you showered earlier, just running the water as hot as you could and standing under it and thinking you’re a reckless moron?_ she asks Mark in her head during her shower – and she has mostly toweled her hair all the way dry when she hears the soft crunch of gravel signaling Mark’s return. She creeps to the window again in time to see Mark wheeling the bike into the garage. She is unsure why, but staring at the bike makes her think about that day in the vineyard so many years ago, and what a relief it was to make it home. Archer carried her home.   
  
_Hi,_ Addison texts _._ She watches Mark reach into one of his zip pockets when he either hears or feels the notification. _I just woke up. I’ll be out in a few._  
  
Mark’s fingers are quick as he fires back a response: _No rush. Take your time. I just got back and am going to hop in the shower._  
  
Addison stays at the window long enough to see Mark tuck his phone back in his pocket and then brush his hands across the front of his shorts. She thinks again of their kiss. It was a few seconds of happiness. Probably the happiest she has felt in _weeks_. Maybe longer. She snapped back to reality when she felt his hands on her body – _God, those incredible hands_. And Mark kissed her back. _Yes_ , she considers, _it’s Mark. He’s not particularly discerning, and not particularly full of morals. But still. He is loyal to his best friend. He would never want to hurt Derek. And I wouldn’t want to hurt Derek either._  
  
Addison shakes her head when – _despite_ thinking about morality and loyalty – a frisson of desire moves through her.  
  
Mark didn’t carry her home. But for a few brief moments, he carried her away.  
  
And somehow that felt even better.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
_They ran, pelting across the frozen ground, which crunched under their feet, Meg and the twins and –_  
  
Addison glances up from her new book at the sound of laughter echoing down the hall. She scowls, and then refocuses on the page again. _Liar. You aren’t working_ , she thinks. _If you were working, then I wouldn’t have to tell Bizzy about the ice cream_.   
  
“You’re almost done with that one…” Rachelle said mere minutes ago, nodding towards the open book cradled in Addison’s hands, most of its pages tipped to the left. She looked at the Captain, and then back at Addison with a wide smile. “You must be so smart.”  
  
Ten-year-old Addison _is_ smart. Smart enough to know that Rachelle is being _patronizing_. And also smart enough to know what exactly her father and Rachelle are doing when they go down the hall into her father’s office. Well, Addison might not know _exactly_ what they are doing, but she knows enough to know that it would break Bizzy’s heart if she knew.  
  
So Bizzy can’t know.  
  
Addison didn’t bother to tell Rachelle – her father’s _secretary_ – that she always reads the last chapter first, and then goes back to the beginning. Yes, that meant Addison knew immediately that Colin Craven could walk, the tragic fate of Leslie Burke, and how Buck became a legend in the Klondike, but it filled her with a sense of relief to know what was coming. She hates surprises. Today is a perfect example. She didn’t think that a few hours at her father’s office would mean she now has to _lie_.  
  
She is supposed to tell Bizzy she and Daddy went out for ice cream. She thinks she’ll say mint chocolate chip, and maybe when the Captain takes her to get ice cream _for real_ tomorrow (because he said he would), that’s the kind she will get. Addison nodded and agreed to comply when the Captain talked to her about this. _Your mother’s feelings would be hurt if she knew I was spending extra time working with Rachelle_ , _so when she asks, you’ll tell her we went to get ice cream._   
  
_Okay_ , Addison said. But that is not what she thinks. _I hate you_ is what she actually thinks. And she has never thought this about her father before. Bizzy, yes. More than once. But not the Captain. Addison feels guilty for lying, but she feels _other_ things too in that moment – and she is so smart, and knows so many words, but she can’t figure out what exactly the word _is_ for what she’s feeling. So instead she just focuses on the hatred for her father while she finishes chapter twelve, and then goes back to the beginning.  
  
(Years later, Addison would recognize that the words she was looking for to describe how she felt that day were _dirty_ and _cheap_.)  
  
She keeps reading, turning the pages as the words take her to a better, more truthful place than the one she currently lives in. _There had been pain, and darkness, and all at once the pain was relieved, and light touched his lids…_  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Hi,” Mark says when Addison quietly enters the living room, dressed casually and also completely bare-faced, which is almost startling – he rarely sees her not put together. Mark sets down a copy of the _East Hampton Star_ he picked up on his ride to have something to apathetically flip through while waiting for Addison to make a reappearance.  
  
“Hi,” she answers, eyes trained downward as she curls her toes into the carpet.  
  
“I ordered pizza. I know it’s barely five and you’re probably not in the mood anyway, but…” he shrugs mildly, and waits a few more seconds. Nothing though. “So…you’re eventually going to be able to look at me, right?”  
  
Addison raises her eyes, and tries to smile.  
  
“Okay,” Mark says quietly. “That’s something.”  
  
“Pizza sounds good,” she replies before moving her fingers to tuck her loose, uncombed hair back behind her ears. “I’ll pour us some wine, too. I’m, um…I’m sorry for kissing you, Mark. It wasn’t appropriate. And I’m sorry for crying all over your shirt.”  
  
“It’s okay. And I think we both know that I own like a million black shirts.”  
  
“True.”  
  
. .   
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
The second time Addison spends a portion of her winter break with Derek’s family, she takes thirteen-year-old Amy to get her ears pierced as a Christmas present. Like the boundary-respecting person she is, Addison asks Carolyn first if she can. Carolyn seems fine with it, and advises her on how to get to the local mall. Addison would prefer to take Amy somewhere more professional – or at least to a place that doesn’t have a food court next to it – but she knows Carolyn would probably have some sort of disparaging comment if Amy told her they went somewhere else. Addison talks Amy into getting basic, uncomplicated studs for her first earrings, but she also picks up a pair of unicorn earrings to surprise to Amy with (Amy loves unicorns).  
  
“So…” Addison says when they get back in her car. She smiles as she looks over at a freshly-pierced Amy. Right as they were leaving the mall, a woman and – presumably – her son were walking the other way. Amy and the boy waved to each other.  
  
A delicate smirk unfurls across Amy’s pale, heart-shaped face. “You’re gonna ask me about that boy,” she states.  
  
“Yep. Does he…go to school with you?”  
  
“Uh-huh. His name is Casey. Casey Prince.”  
  
Addison is utterly delighted by this. “Casey _Prince_.”  
  
“Yeah,” Amy tells her. “We have Homeroom and Social Studies together. We sit near each other in Homeroom, but I don’t always know what to say to him. Like, one time Casey looked at me, and there were _butterflies_ in my stomach. I thought that was just an expression, but I really felt them.” Amy glances over at Addison, her expression growing funny. “Don’t tell me if you feel that way about Derek, because I might throw up in my mouth.”  
  
Addison laughs in response. She adores Amelia so much. And hell, if Addison is honest, she can very nearly make _herself_ throw up in her mouth, so strong are her feelings for her boyfriend. She loves Derek. And she knows that butterfly feeling all too well, even though they’ve shifted from concentrated, lustful love to a more pragmatic, enduring love (still plenty lustful a lot of the time though). They have been together almost two and-a-half years. They are no longer _falling_ for one another, but standing close beside one another – beside one another no matter what. _Is he the one?_ Naomi asked her a few months ago, fingers framed under her chin. _Yes_ , Addison answered. Derek loves her. Derek will be a good husband ( _will_ , because it’s just inevitable at this point). He wouldn’t ever hurt her – not on purpose, at least, and he’d never do anything spiteful. It’s hard to believe though that there is just _one_ one out there, because Addison thinks life is so circumstantial, that everyone is just two or three turns away from being an entirely different person in terms of likes and dislikes and dispositions and desires. If soulmates are real, then people probably have _many_ soulmates. She loves Derek though, more than she has ever loved anyone. And she can’t imagine ever loving anyone else, or ever _wanting_ to love anyone else. So, yes. Put it that way, Derek is the one. And, really, given the kind of childhood Addison had, the fact that she can feel this strongly about any man is truly incredible.  
  
“Well…” Addison says to her future sister-in-law. “If you’re not sure what to say, starting with a smile always helps. Smile and say ‘hi’ when you’re back in school in January. And you can ask Casey what he was going shopping for the day you saw him at the mall. And, just remember…” Addison reaches across the center console to playfully poke Amy in the shoulder. “Boys are probably more nervous of talking to you than you are of talking to them.”   
  
Amy smiles thoughtfully. “I hope Casey looks at me again. I want that butterfly feeling again.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll look at you like that again. It sounds like he likes you, and boys always look again if they like you. You’ll definitely feel that feeling again, Amy.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“How are you feeling?” Mark asks as he refills Addison’s wine glass. It’s a casual (early) dinner, with a greasy pizza box, a Pinot Noir, and two wine glasses on the coffee table between them as they sit on the living room floor. Addison has managed to eat two slices, and having some food and wine in her stomach has helped her to calm down a little.   
  
“Better. I think.” She inhales deeply. The sky has darkened outside the window behind Mark’s head, and rain is now beating steadily. “Mark, we can…we can still be friends, right?”  
  
“With benefits?” His teasing smile turns into a wince at the look on her face. “I’m kidding. That was a joke. Yeah, of course we can still be friends. Good friends. We _are_ friends, Addie. I feel like…I feel like the sooner we start laughing about this, the easier it’s going to be. People make mistakes, right? Especially people who grew up in households like we did. Let’s, uh, just make sure it’s a one-time mistake.”  
  
“A one-time mistake,” she echoes. “It’s just that I was thinking…”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“I think this is the kind I’m going to get,” Naomi says, holding out a sample graduation announcement for her friends to see. Her fingers skim over the parchment-like feel of the card. “Are your parents making you do announcements?”  
  
“My mother is making Susan do custom ones…” Addison rolls her eyes. “Susan is her assistant – her social secretary,” she adds, feeling embarrassed. She could have just said _yes_.  
  
“Yeah, I’m definitely doing them…” Derek plows ahead, sensing that Addison regrets how she mentioned a _social secretary_. Not that any of them judge her for her upbringing. “Because…” Derek makes a delicate rubbing gesture with his fingers. “Money, hopefully.”  
  
Naomi points out the Latin words printed on the ribbon beneath Columbia’s shield. “I’m not even going to take a stab at pronouncing that, but I’m just realizing…I have no idea what our school’s motto is. Should I know that?” She glances around, meeting a bunch of blank stares. “None of us know what it is, do we?”  
  
“I’d say it’s more important that you knew enough to pass step two of the licensing exam,” Mark says. “We were a little busy with _that_ this year.”  
  
Addison shakes her head. “I feel like _I_ should know it though.” She did her undergrad here too, after all. “I mean…I’ve been here eight years.”  
  
“I know what it is,” Sam says, rubbing at his head with a sheepish expression. _Of course he knows_ , they all think. “The English translation is ‘In Thy light shall we see light.’ I don’t remember hearing anything like that in CCD, but it has to be biblical. Anyway. Nai, you know what we _could_ do -”  
  
“We are not doing an engagement announcement, graduation announcement, and a save-the-date all on the same card, Sam.”  
  
“I actually remember my undergrad one,” Mark says. “Laws without morals are useless.”  
  
Derek smiles winsomely. “Definitely the perfect motto for someone with occasionally questionable morals.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“You’re thinking what?” Mark asks with a heavy swallow.  
  
“It’s just that I was thinking…” Addison continues. “I promised myself I would never be like the Captain or Bizzy.” She puffs out a weary sigh, and then looks at Mark as he nods in response. He knows what the Captain is like, of course. Bizzy not as much though, at least not in _that_ way.  
  
“You’re nothing like them,” Mark says. “I know I don’t know them that well, but I suffered through the same gardening event thing with them that you did, and trust me: you are absolutely nothing like them.”  
  
“You’re nothing like your parents either, Mark. Do you…” Addison hesitates, wondering if she should even ask. He is the only one she is close to who she suspects would have the same answer as her though. “Do you hate them?”  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“Me too, sometimes,” she admits. “And I think they did the best they could – they parented in the way _they_ were parented. I don’t think that’s how I would ever parent, but at this point…” she shrugs limply. “Well. It’s not like I can have a child when my marriage is this bad. So maybe I won’t be a parent after all.” This has been hitting her more and more lately. Next spring was her decided-upon deadline to start trying with her husband, and maybe she still will, but God, how _could_ she when this is where she’s currently at with Derek? The idea that Addison might not get to be a mother though – she shakes her head, unwilling to think about it further, at least not right now. “Anyway…” she tells Mark before he can assure her of anything related to potentially have a kid. “Their parenting. It left a lot to be desired. I think most mothers and fathers can own up to the fact that they’ve made mistakes or that they’ve had days where they aren’t their best selves, but not the Captain and Bizzy. Especially my mother. It was – is – constant criticism and a need for propriety with her. But since they’re WASPs, they can talk themselves out of feeling bad about things. Transgressions don’t come with guilt. It makes me…it just makes me think of morals.” She grimaces and meets Mark’s eyes. “Laws and morals. Laws _without_ morals. Not that…not that I should be talking about morals at the moment.”   
  
Mark shakes his head. “Sure you can. It was just a kiss, Addison. Just one kiss, just one time. And we know it was wrong and we feel bad about it. We aren’t trying to brush it off as no big deal or justify our behavior, you know? But it _was_ just a kiss…we didn’t go any farther.”  
  
Addison bites her lower lip, deep in thought. _Morality can so easily be tossed aside when a certain moment presents itself…when a person is feeling a certain way. Life is just vineyard hill after vineyard hill, moment after moment, isn’t it? And that’s what this morning was with Mark: a moment._ But more and more of Addison’s moments lately are starting to highlight the feeling of desperation that stems from a crumbling marriage.   
  
She and Mark stare at each other now, for a moment. A long moment. A _moment_. Addison is certain he is wondering the same thing she is: would it have just been a kiss, if she hadn’t stopped it?   
  
“It was just a kiss,” she repeats quietly.  
  
Mark says it once more, voice gravely this time. “Just a kiss.”  
  
Addison keeps thinking though. She remembers a line from a book she read as a little girl: _as long as it hasn't happened, there's a chance that it may not happen._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading, and for kudos and comments!
> 
> References: 
> 
> Addison to Archer about falling off her bike: “We were going downhill and my tire came loose and I went over the handlebars. Scraped up whole face. We were about a half-mile from home and you...you picked me up. You told me it was gonna be okay and you carried me home. You weren't even that big. But you were my big brother. And you knew I was scared and you carried me home.” (Private Practice, 2x15)
> 
> Addison: “I’ve always been the kind of person who reads the last chapter of the book first. I like to know what’s coming. It used to drive Sam crazy. He’d say to me, ‘getting to the end is supposed to be a surprise.’ I hate surprises. I like to know what’s coming.” (Private Practice, 5x13. Earlier in the episode, Addison talks about how she hates surprise parties. Mark also hates them. I can’t remember what episode of Grey’s it’s mentioned in, but he describes them as “hostile.” Not liking surprise parties isn’t exactly a fresh take, but I do like that both Mark and Addison aren’t fans.)
> 
> Addison to Archer: “You are making me feel dirty and cheap, and I'm ten years old again telling mother that I went out for ice cream with Daddy, when really I'm sitting in his office while he's screwing his secretary down the hall.” (Private Practice, 2x17)
> 
> Bizzy’s save-your-tears-for-the-pillow approach was mentioned in Private Practice 4x14. Also mentioned that episode was the cadaver that (at least) Addison, Sam, and Derek worked with/on in med school. They named him Mr. Mulligan (after Derek’s favorite math teacher). Derek and Addison also met while working on (presumably) this cadaver (Grey’s, 5x15).
> 
> In episode 4x19 of Private Practice, Addison said it would have been “unseemly” to have Mark’s baby. And I know there were other reasons she decided to not proceed with the pregnancy, but I can definitely see her upbringing playing a part in this (I also highly encourage you to watch episode 4x21 of Private Practice around the 31-minute mark if you haven’t before).
> 
> Book references: some italicized lines are pulled from A Swiftly Tilting Planet, by Madeline L’Engle, the book I decided Addison was reading while the Captain was down the hall doing Captain ThingsTM. I have the trio as all being born in 1968 (Almighty Canon disagrees, I am sure), and by that math, this would have been one of the more popular books released when Addison was ten (I’m not rewinding “current time” with Addison, Derek, and Mark back to 2005 though. We can all just deal with that part). Other books referenced (though not by name) in the ten year-old Addison flashback: The Secret Garden, Bridge to Terabithia, and The Call of the Wild.


	6. After Light, After Dark

**Chapter 6. After Dark, After Light**  
  
Addison takes a large, unladylike swig of scotch while keeping her eyes carefully trained on the doorway that leads back into the formal living room. A lilting cacophony of WASP-ish noise can be heard in there, and she watches as women in floral dresses move around the room, crystal tumblers in hand. Addison truly just came into the kitchen for a quick breather from Bizzy and Bizzy’s friends, but then she saw the Laphroaig on the counter (a good a sign as any that the Captain was here this morning), and she figures one (large) sip can’t hurt. She then moves past to the other side of the kitchen to tuck the bottle in one of the cabinets. Let the Captain try to find it later in this mid-60s aesthetic nightmare of a kitchen. The rest of Addison’s childhood home is immaculate, stylish, and has adjusted with the times while maintaining integrity to some of its more Old Money elements. But the kitchen, other than appliance updates, has been pretty much the same since the Captain and Bizzy first bought their Greenwich home. Outdated green cabinets and ceramic tile countertops with prominent grout lines streaking around them surround Addison as she gently closes the cabinet. Not having gutted the kitchen makes sense though, she figures – it’s not like Bizzy cooks. She pays people to do that.  
  
“Addison?”  
  
Addison turns around quickly, but relaxes when she sees that the greeter is Susan Grant, her mother’s social secretary.  
  
“Susan!” She says happily. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to make it.”  
  
“Not a chance I would miss your engagement party. Well. Bizzy’s engagement party, right?” Susan offers a knowing grin. “Your mother has been really excited to show you and your fiancé off though. Anyway, I just slipped in…” she tips her head in the opposite direction of the front entrance. Susan lives on the estate, and her cottage is just a two-minute walk from the main house. “Derek is one of those two, right?”  
  
Addison leans around the counter to see her mother talking with Derek and Mark. Bizzy was vaguely indifferent to Derek at first. She was polite, and not necessarily disapproving…just indifferent in the sense that Bizzy figured he was a “for now” boyfriend for Addison. But as the relationship got more serious, Derek grew on her. _Charming_ , Bizzy called him, which is not entirely unique – Addison is certain most people would consider that to be one of the top five adjectives to describe her future husband. And then there was the _potential_ thing. A former colleague of the Captain’s told him he observed Derek on a clinical rotation once and thought he was a natural, that he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek became a world-class surgeon.  
  
Today, Derek has earned the description of _tolerant_ from his future wife, because – like Susan pointed out – this engagement party for Derek and Addison is really more for Bizzy.  
  
“Yes. Derek is on the left,” Addison says. “The one with dark hair. Cute, right?”  
  
“Very.”  
  
“And the one next to him is Mark – that’s his best man. He’s a surgeon as well. He was nice enough to be Derek’s moral support this weekend. You know all of this can be…a lot.”  
  
“It can,” Susan admits. “And I had it wrong, I guess. I actually thought that _Mark_ was Derek.”  
  
“Really?” Addison asks, vaguely amused by this. Mark is attractive, definitely, and he has some good qualities, but he’s also brusque, arrogant, and incredibly selfish at times. Definitely not husband material. “I’ll have to tell Derek that later – it’ll make him laugh. Are you…are you seeing anyone at the moment, Susan? Sorry…” Addison winces, regretting this particular brand of small talk. “That’s such an annoying question.”  
  
“No worries,” Susan replies pleasantly. “And no, not at the moment.”  
  
“I hope it’s not because my mother is keeping you too busy.”  
  
“She’s not.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Rain has been landing against the windows for hours tonight, pearly droplets shivering in clusters on the sills and rails until gusts of wind push them away. And by ten o’clock, when Mark and Addison are ready to go to bed, the power has already flickered on and off twice, undoubtedly the result of a storm now overpowering enough to feature snaps of lightning and thunder.  
  
“I’ll grab the flashlight before we head to bed,” Addison decides as they exit the living room. “Just in case we end up needing it. I left it in the hallway closet last night.”  
  
“I promise not to pull a Patch or a Spot – or whatever his name was – on you when you get it,” Mark says as he follows her down the hallway. He can’t imagine it would be _too_ dark in the hallway should the power go out. There are two skylights overhead, and a large floor to ceiling window at the end of the hall with enough landscape lighting glinting through.  
  
Addison manages a small smile as she looks at Mark over her shoulder. “Being potentially stuck in a dark room or a door being closed in a small room…it’s less of a phobia and more of the Bizzy thing for me now.”  
  
“What Bizzy thing?”  
  
“Derek never told you?” She asks, genuinely surprised. “I mean, I asked him not to say anything to anyone, but I sort of figured he’d tell you, anyway. If the situation were reversed, I’m sure I would have told Nai. Or my friend Savvy.”  
  
Mark shakes his head as Addison slips into the closet to collect the flashlight. “Derek is pretty ethical when it comes to secret-keeping. Plus, you know men and women are wired differently when it comes to ‘don’t tell anyone’ stuff. What, uh…what Bizzy thing though?”  
  
“It was an…incident about two years ago.” Addison cannot – _does not_ – want to talk about it though. Ever again, really, if she can help it. “Not long after that day you sat with me at the hospital…I’ll tell you one day. Everything is fine with Bizzy now. People heal, you know?”  
  
“Bodies are made to heal,” Mark murmurs. They had an attending who said this to them a lot when they were interns, and it is one of those things that has stuck with Addison, Derek, and Mark all these years later. “Well, I’m sorry, for whatever it’s worth. Without knowing the context – it sounds shitty.”  
  
“It was.”  
  
Bodies are made to heal.  
  
Not feelings though, Addison knows. Not always, at least.  
  
“Mark, did Derek text you, yesterday morning?” Addison shifts the flashlight (off for the time being) back-and-forth between her hands. Why this matters, she isn’t sure, and why she is thinking about it now, when they are about to go to bed, she also isn’t sure. “When I was outside and Derek called to tell me he wasn’t going to be able to come here this weekend, I mean.”   
  
“No,” Mark answers, leaning against the doorframe to the guest room. “He texted me later, but I saw you through the window and I could just…tell that he wasn’t able to make it. So I came outside because I thought maybe you’d want someone to sit with you and hold your hand.” He grins, almost shyly. “We have that in common, remember: childhoods with emotionally unavailable adults and zero hand holding.”   
  
Addison nods. “When I was a little girl, I used to play with dolls, and I would hold their hands. Bizzy mostly bought Madame Alexander dolls, which weren’t…I can’t imagine that means anything to you, but it’s pretty much the equivalent of an autographed baseball – it’s basically for display purposes. But one of my nannies got me a baby doll, and whenever I was rocking her, I would hold her hand. Sometimes I was the mom, but other times, I would pretend the baby was _me_ as a baby, and that the mom was – well, not Bizzy exactly, but some sort of ambiguous character with the traits of a loving mother. Sort of silly, I know. Anyway.” She takes a deep breath. “Good night, Mark. Sleep well.”   
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“I know that this is hard...” Addison says as Bizzy approaches her at the end of Susan’s hospital bed, her light brown eyes flashing with anger. Addison has just told her mother _no_. And no one ever, ever tells Bizzy Forbes Montgomery no.  
  
Addison has tried to explain, words and compassion dancing on that line between professional and personal, because how could this _not_ be personal, when she is consulting on a patient who just happens to be her mother’s best friend, and someone who Addison quite likes, even though she hasn’t seen Susan in several years. There would have been more options if this has been caught sooner, but they are far past the _sooner_ part. The cancer has spread. The most Addison can do now is keep Susan as comfortable as possible. Susan seems unbelievably sad and scared upon hearing this news, but also…accepting. Or at least accepting of the fact that there truly is nothing Addison can do for her. Addison was shocked the first time she saw Susan at Bizzy’s request. Susan is now an ethereal silhouette of the woman she was so many years ago at Addison’s engagement party. Pale-faced and thin, utterly exhausted-looking. And brownish-purple halos under her eyes. She is a woman dying by notches now.  
  
Bizzy’s jaw is set hard in refusal. “What it is,” she argues, “is unacceptable.”   
  
“Bizzy...the cancer is too far advanced. At best, I could give Susan a couple of extra months, but she’d be miserable -”  
  
It happens to Addison so quickly that she doesn’t have time to defend herself. Her mother’s mouth tightens into a thin line and the subtle shift of the Hermès scarf draped over Bizzy’s shoulders indicates movement, and then suddenly her right hand comes in hard, issuing a stinging slap against the curve of Addison’s cheek. There is enough force behind it that the momentum sends Addison reeling. She gasps, and shakily holds a hand to her cheek, feeling the tremors of heat spreading beneath it.   
  
“You will save her life!” Bizzy yells as Addison slowly turns back to face her, a palm still cupped over her cheekbone. Her mouth is parted in shock, and she thinks Susan’s is too, but it is hard to tell because a wall of tears is now blurring Addison’s vision as her mother issues a fierce demand. “Do you hear me? You will save her life.”  
  
Addison quietly excuses herself and walks out of the room into an empty hospital corridor. She sends her husband a text, even though she knows he is most likely still in surgery – they agreed to meet as soon as he is out of the OR. Addison’s office is nowhere near this wing of the hospital (of course Bizzy paid extra to get a bigger, more exclusive room for her friend), so Addison mentally calculates how quickly she can make it to the nearest staff bathroom. She ends up being so focused on her thoughts though that when she rounds a corner, she nearly doesn’t hear Mark when he calls out her name.  
  
“Hey. There you are. I got held up on the way up here. I was coming to see you. I saw Derek before he scrubbed in and he told me to come check on…” Mark falters when Addison turns to face him, still teary-eyed. “Addison, what happened?”  
  
“Is…is Derek still in surgery?” She crosses her arms tightly in front of her body, feeling vulnerable and raw. Her cheek still burns. “I sent him a text, but I haven’t heard back yet.”  
  
“As far as I know, he’s still in the OR. What’s wrong?”  
  
Addison shakes her head, throat tight. “I just…I really, really need Derek.”  
  
“Okay,” Mark replies calmly. “You said you texted him, right?” He pulls out his phone out of his pocket and gestures to a few unused hospital beds shoved up against the wall. “I’m going to text him, too, and I’ll tell him where we are. And then I’m going to sit with you…” he gives her a light nudge to get her moving towards a bed. “Until he’s able to come.”  
  
“You don’t have to stay,” Addison says softly when Mark takes a seat next to her. The bed is slightly raised, so their feet dangle off the ground. It makes her think of being a child. “I’m…I’m okay, Mark.”  
  
“You stayed for me once, when I told you that you didn’t have to, and even though I told you I was okay,” he says. Addison is too tired to think through when that might be, or to even ask _when_. “Your mom’s friend…” Mark continues.  
  
Addison takes a deep, slow breath. “Susan,” she says.  
  
“Susan,” he repeats. “It’s not good, is it?”  
  
“No. It’s not. And when I walked in, my mother was holding Susan’s hand, which is just…not a Bizzy thing. She was holding Susan’s hand. She’s never held my hand.” _She just uses her hand to slap me, apparently_.  
  
(In hindsight, Addison wonders if she should have had more of an inkling then about the truth between Bizzy and Susan.)  
  
She blinks in surprise when Mark places his hand on top of hers, pressing his thumb into the lines of her palm, and settling the rest of his fingers on the back of her hand.  
  
“Oh, Mark.” Addison lightly shakes her head as a laugh vibrates through her. “Thank you. You’re so thoughtful, sometimes.”  
  
Mark shrugs a shoulder, as though it’s not a big deal. “Bizzy’s missing out, Red,” he says with a smirk. “You have an excellent hand to hold. A five-star hand for sure.” This makes Addison laugh a little more. “Do you, uh…want to talk about it?”  
  
“No, but thank you…for offering, and for staying with me. I think I just want to sit here with you until Derek is able to come.”  
  
“Sounds good. And you probably never want to hear me tell you that you’re in good company with _me_ , but…my parents never held my hand either.”  
  
“Too bad,” she tells him with a teasing grin. “You have a five-star one as well.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison closes her bedroom door and quickly works her way through her nighttime routine. Something tells her that the power is going to go out again, and she’d prefer to be under the covers when it happens. Once she has washed up, she tugs her Isabel Marant sweater over her head, and while she unclasps her bra, she feels a flash of irritation at several semi-sheer camisoles tucked into her suitcase as some sort of twisted wishful thinking on her part – surely packing them would guarantee Derek would be coming to the Hamptons, even though she and Derek are well past the point where enticing lingerie is expected. Not the case though. Instead, Addison puts on a CBGB shirt of Derek’s that hangs loosely off her. Comfy, but decidedly unsexy. She reaches for pajama bottoms, but _you know what, fuck it_ , she thinks, and slips on a pair of black low rise panties first, and quickly finds herself slightly embarrassed about how good the eyelash lace and polyamide material feels against her skin. It has been almost two months since Addison and Derek last had sex, and Addison has never been a scratch-your-own-itch kind of girl. She’s not a prude; she just thinks of sex as a two-player game, and flying solo – not that she’s ever really given it much of a try – doesn’t really do it for her.  
  
(This utterly flummoxed Naomi when the subject came up once, and she went as far as to ask if Addison at least owned a showerhead massager, and if not, _why the hell not_ ).  
  
Addison thinks tonight she might give it a try though with her fingers, if only because she’s desperately, desperately sex-deprived, and the chances to have two-player encounters with her husband are getting fewer and farther between lately. She might as well have sex with herself, and while she’s at it, she might as well fantasize – also not a typical thing for her – of someone other than her self-centered, absent husband.  
  
Then she hears the abrupt hum of the power going out, and darkness suddenly envelops her. And Addison almost laughs as she grapples for the flashlight by her feet – God, this is what it has come to. She clicks the flashlight on and walks towards her bedroom door. That had to have been some sort of sign, or at the very least, the universe making fun of her for being this _desperate_. She feels a little ridiculous poking her head outside her room to confirm the power has gone out, but senses Mark will do the same.  
  
“Power’s out,” Addison says, concealing a smile when Mark does in fact open his bedroom door moments after she does. “I mean. Obviously.”  
  
Mark nods. “Yes. We are both very smart people to have realized this. Man, it sounds crazy out there. Anyway, I just figured I’d check…” his voice softens. “You okay?”  
  
“I’m good. We should probably…go back to bed. I can leave the flashlight in the hallway if you want, in case you want to go get a glass of water or something at some point?”  
  
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Mark says. “And…it’s not silly, by the way.” He feels weird saying that word – _silly_. It’s childish-sounding. But then, in many ways, Mark hasn’t quite grown up. He is just a more fucked-up version of Peter Pan. A version of Peter Pan who has suddenly started to lust after his best friend’s wife, apparently. All because of _one kiss_. “Sorry, I was just thinking after…what you were saying earlier about the dolls. You know what the crappiest thing I ever did to the Shepherds was when I was a kid?” He watches as Addison shakes her head, and he takes a step forward so he can rest his back against the wall near his doorframe. “It was…I took Wish Bear from Liz. I was maybe ten or eleven, and Lizzie was still pretty little. She liked _Care Bears_ …remember those stuffed bears? And I just…one day when I was leaving the Shepherds’ house, I put Wish Bear in my backpack. I don’t know why. It’s not like I actually _wanted_ the bear. I shoved it in the back of my bedroom closet – maybe I just liked knowing the bear was there. There was one night though when I was home alone – Everett had just started managing a second hotel, so he was busier than normal and my parents were going out more – and I had all the lights on, but then the power went out. I was way too old to have freaked out the way I did, but I just…freaked out. And then I remembered Wish Bear, and I got it – her, I think it was supposed to be a her – out of the closet. I’m sure I didn’t come anywhere close to taking care of her in the way you would have with a doll, but I slept with her that night, and got to pretend I wasn’t alone. And the lights were out, so I guess I didn’t feel safe, but mostly…I didn’t want to be alone. It’s hard when your parents are absent. When the people you love are absent.”  
  
“Yes. Yes, it is,” Addison says softly as she toes a bit closer to him. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Mark. And I’m sorry that you know that feeling – this feeling – too.”  
  
A sudden clap of thunder perches close enough in the sky above them that its extending shock wave makes the house and windows briefly shudder. Addison jumps at the sound, and ends up dropping the flashlight. It skitters away down the hall.  
  
“It’s okay,” Mark murmurs, curling his fingers around her elbow. “You’re okay, Addison.”  
  
And she is okay, in that moment. Everything is dark, but suddenly she sees.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“You’re going to do something, right?”   
  
“Yes,” Derek says in response to his irritated wife’s question. “I’m just…thinking it through. Like a surgeon would. There’s more than one approach. So, if Mark takes a few steps forward and I -”  
  
“And _I’m_ thinking about the obituary for this,” Addison snipes. “The obituary will say, ‘Woman who told her husband and her husband’s best friend that there was absolutely no way they could get the futon down to the first floor was in fact correct, but before she could properly strangle them both, she succumbed to her injuries as a result of being pinned between the wall and the futon couch.”  
  
Mark shakes his head. “Request for a description revision: the very _ugly_ , very _heavy_ futon couch.”   
  
“No backsies, Mark,” Derek says while Addison makes a disgruntled noise from where she is somewhat trapped between the futon and corner wall of the L-shaped staircase. “You said you wanted it.”   
  
“I do,” Mark answers. “But I can want it _and_ also acknowledge that it’s both ugly and heavy.”  
  
Both descriptions are true, so neither Shepherd argues. Derek and Addison have been married for three years and are finally making the big move from their Murray Hill apartment to a stunning brownstone overlooking Central Park (dipping into Addison’s trust fund helped a bit with the down payment). They have been trying to separate things out that they no longer want or need, and at the last minute (most significantly, after the movers were done for the day), Mark decided he would take Addison’s futon couch that she’s had since med school after all.   
  
“I feel like this doesn’t bear repeating, but with you two idiots, perhaps it does: I am pinned to the _wall_ right now, and it’s…” she glares at Mark. He was the one who convinced them this was doable without the help of professionals. “It’s because of you. You have pinned me to the wall.”  
  
Predictably, Mark smirks. “Not all women would complain about that, you know.”  
  
“We are not talking about you pressing a woman up against the wall with your body, Mark Everett Sloan,” Addison snaps while Derek mumbles something to the effect of _Mark, cut it out_ under his breath. “We are talking about a _futon_ pressing me into the wall.”  
  
Several years later (it took some time, but they did in fact negotiate the futon the rest of the way down the stairs), the three of them watched the somewhat iconic “pivot” scene from _Friends_. Mark asked, with a jokey smile playing at his lips, if the writers had stolen this idea from them.  
  
“More likely they stole it from New York City in general,” Derek answered. “I’m sure everyone has a similar story when it comes to the hellscape that is moving apartments here.”  
  
“It was Mark’s fault though,” Addison said. “But I guess...it _was_ my very ugly and very heavy futon couch, and I desperately wanted to get rid of it.”  
  
Mark smirked at her. “Thank you for taking some responsibility for your role in this.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
It’s slow again. At first, at least. And Addison started it when she erased the remaining space between them, settled her hands on Mark’s shadow-covered shoulders, and grazed her lips against his. _Again_. She started it _again_. That feels like an important distinction for Mark, even though he is making no effort to stop the long, soft kisses they are exchanging in the dark.  
  
“Addison…” Mark finally pulls back when he feels her tongue parting his lips. It’s the first attempt she’s made to ensure the encounter becomes more frenzied, steamier. “Don’t do this because Derek isn’t here, because you’re lonely and sad. The absence thing…this won’t help. It won’t numb the pain or make you feel better.” He knows that is sort of a lie though. It _will_ feel good for her for a little bit, at least. Probably really good, honestly. Same with him.  
  
Addison shakes her head. “It’s not about Derek. I…I want this, Mark. I’m not even thinking about my marriage right now.” Her words thread gently over his chin as she inches closer again. Addison’s eyes are wide and her body is full of heady lust when he looks back at her, and she finds herself grateful that there is still enough light coming through the window at the end of the hall that it’s not complete darkness they are wrapped up in. She wants to see him.  
  
“Yeah,” Mark responds with an edge in his voice. That’s my concern.”  
  
“I want this. It’s just this -”  
  
Mark holds up a hand when she leans in to kiss him. “Don’t say just this once,” he says. It feels like they are well past that now.  
  
“Just this…” she smiles, almost hopefully. “Just this weekend?”  
  
“Addison…”  
  
“It’s not about Derek,” she says again, and once again, Mark doesn’t believe her. But he does find he cares a little less about her insistence that this is not just some sort of comfort thing. “I mean, I totally get if you don’t…you can say no. Tell me no and I’ll go back to bed. Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me no.” It ends up sounding like a challenge, even though Addison might not mean for it to. Mark isn’t quite sure.  
  
“Addison.” Mark almost growls her name, and Addison squirms and presses her thighs tighter together, feeling turned on just by the sound of her name in his mouth like that. “Don’t ask me to say no if you don’t want me to say no.”  
  
Addison shakes her head, and her words follow slowly, but with certainty. “I don’t want you to say no,” she says. “I want this, Mark. I want you right now.”  
  
The _right now_ slices Mark in half. He’s heard this from plenty of women. Hell, that is his preference too; he has an utter distaste for any sort of intimacy that could be meaningful or serious. The words are different coming from Addison though. The words on her lips invoke the same sort of desired short-term gratification Mark has heard before, simultaneously as reckless and commonplace as the shallower breaths she is drawing in. But something about it causes a quiver of disappointment in him.  
  
Mark steps forward, molding his large hands on Addison’s hips to help her keep her balance as he pushes her backwards. He presses her against the opposite wall, and Addison makes a slight gasp and an “oh” sound as her shoulders jerk against resistance and her head thumps into the eggshell-finished wall. _Respite_ , Addison thinks distractedly. That’s the name of the color she selected for this stretch of the house.  
  
“Sorry…” Mark says immediately. His facial hair scratches over her cheek and the square of her jawline as he leans in closer, trying to make sure his words reach her over another chorus of thunder drumming above them. “Did I hurt you?”  
  
“No. Not at all.”  
  
_Not even a little bit_ , she thinks, as Mark tangles his tongue with hers. And that truly is the last thing she thinks for a bit, because she is too lost in the sensations and how fucking good this man is making her feel with just his mouth and hands.  
  
When the power comes back on a few minutes later, it reveals a contrast of shadows between them, a beguiling lattice of light and dark that stretches over their flushed faces. The light startles them and they briefly break contact, though Addison’s hands remain cradled around Mark’s cheeks. Mark stares at her questioningly. Their kisses have grown lustier, and they are starting to inch into other forms of unexplored intimacy as well. One of Mark’s hands is still palming her bare breast through her shirt, his thumb rubbing over her nipple.  
  
“I still want to,” Addison says quickly. “Do…do you still want to?”  
  
“Yeah. I want to.” Mark purposely pushes himself against her and moves a little, side to side, just for emphasis. His sweatpants are loose, and leave nothing to the imagination as he rests the bulk of his weight against Addison’s hip and scatters kisses on her throat. Addison draws in a heavy breath when she realizes how hard he is, and it drives her wild that it’s for _her_.   
  
Mark’s voice is gruff as he copies her earlier statement, his words warming the slender dip at the bottom of her neck when he speaks: “I want you right now.”  
  
Addison nudges him backwards after hearing this. She does so with a little reluctance, since this means his body temporarily isn’t grinding against hers. “Let’s go to your room,” she whispers.  
  
“You’re sure,” Mark says. It is very much a statement and not a question.  
  
“Yes. Just this weekend.”   
  
They both know – even if it is a thought that is just stored away at the moment – there is a big chance this will be a lie.   
  
But adults can play pretend, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> Chapter title is from “The Knife,” by Maggie Rogers.
> 
> While meeting with a divorce attorney and discussing the assets brought into the marriage:  
> Addison: “Well, I had my trust fund. And a sparkling personality. And a futon couch.”  
> Derek: “Yes, Addison had a very ugly, very heavy futon couch.”  
> Addison: “Whatever happened to that couch?”  
> Derek: “We gave it to Mark.” (Grey’s, 3x05)
> 
> The CBGB shirt – Addison was wearing this in Grey’s 3x01 in the flashback (aftermath) of Derek walking in on her and Mark. And Addison not being a DIY kinda gal is accurate, and is pulled from PP 1x05, in a delightful conversation between Addison, Naomi, and Violet.
> 
> The following are from PP, 4x11:
> 
> Addison: “[Susan has] Stage IV Ovarian Cancer and Bizzy Forbes Montgomery never asks anyone for anything and she asked me to do this. She asked me to save Susan’s life.”
> 
> Addison: “[Bizzy’s] holding Susan’s hand. Bizzy never held the Captain’s hand…she never held my hand.”
> 
> The slap and the “you will save her” comment also happened. :(
> 
> (If you’ve watched PP all the way through, you know that I am deviating from how the Bizzy-Susan storyline actually played out, when it started, etc.).
> 
> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	7. Tectonic Shifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from the song “Taste,” by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> Things are gonna start to get a bit, well, steamy, so apologies if that deters anyone. Not every chapter will be sexual from here on out, but this one and chapter 8 are definitely, definitely smutty. The next chapter will be more Mark-centric.

**Chapter 7. Tectonic Shifts**  
  
Mark walks ahead of her into the guest room, and Addison blinks a few times as she crosses over the brightened threshold. The power coming back on has brought back all available sources of light in the room, including the bedside lamps, and she wants to ask Mark if this is just how it was before or if he needs to sleep with all accessible lights on as a holdover from his childhood. She wants to know for some reason, but before she can round her mouth to form the words, Mark captures her lower lip between his teeth, tugging lightly.  
  
Addison’s fingers eagerly curl around the bottom of Mark’s shirt, and he takes the hint and peels it over his head. His hands then move to her shirt – the obvious next step, so that they will be even again – and she tenses a little.  
  
“What?” He manages to ask between kisses.  
  
“Mmmm,” she says back against his lips. That is not the actual answer, but right after Mark asked, his course of action changed and his hands cupped her ass and pulled her closer, so all she could do in response was mewl with satisfaction.  
  
“Mmmm, what?” Mark says, which makes her giggle.  
  
“Nothing. It’s just been um, well over a decade since…since someone else…” Addison purposely avoids saying the name. As though Mark doesn’t know. “Has, you know. Seen me naked. I still want this, Mark – just. It’s a little weird, is all.”   
  
“Well,” Mark pecks lightly at the corner of her mouth. “I have a feeling you’re going to look pretty good naked.” He cups her through her pajama bottoms, and Addison is certain he can feel how warm and damp she already is, even through two layers. The heat only spreads further when he strokes his tongue over the ridge of her ear and whispers his next words: “Take your clothes off.”

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“I miss my little twelve-year-old who believed in unicorns,” Addison says with a wistful, almost-teasing smile. She waits for a response from Amy, who has just taken a sip of her hot chocolate. They are having a girls’ weekend, which was an invitation from Addison once Amy called her and said she wanted to talk about birth control, because she wasn’t sure who else to ask. Amy is fifteen, almost sixteen. She is a bit too aggressive with eyeliner now for Addison’s taste, but she is a sweet, thoughtful young lady who works hard in school and is relatively put-together (the infamous Hurricane Amelia phase is still about two years out). And, while Addison feels encouraged and perhaps a little honored that Amy felt okay with coming to her about this topic, she can’t help feeling a little pensive, too.  
  
“I still believe in the possible existence of unicorns. I just also want to have sex at some point.”  
  
“So…this isn’t Casey Prince?” Addison asks. At the beginning of the conversation, Amy mumbled a name that Addison didn’t recognize. Not that Amy really shares much about boys.  
  
Amy tips her head. “Who? Oh, right. No, not Casey. He’s still cute, but he’s kind of a goody two-shoes.”  
  
“What’s wrong with that?”  
  
“I like bad boys.”  
  
“Oh, _Amelia_ …”  
  
“No, not bad-bad,” Amy clarifies hastily when she sees the look of worry on her (now official) sister-in-law’s face. “Just…boys that have a little edge, I guess. Trevor is a virgin too, if that makes you feel any better. Plus, he lost his mom when he was younger, so we kind of have death stuff in common. He’s just different than boys like Casey. More sarcastic and stuff. More confident. I don’t know if this makes sense, but Casey is sort of soft, and Trevor is…” Amy breaks into a fit of giggles. “Hard.”  
  
Addison sighs. “Okay. You are absolutely not ready to be intimate with someone if you’re going to make jokes like that.” Amy just shrugs in response. “Do you love him, Amy?”  
  
“I’m not sure yet. I really, really like him though. Addie, does it…hurt the first time?”   
  
“Yes, it usually does. A little bit.”  
  
“But then it gets…good? I want to know,” Amy says quickly, “but you know I don’t want you to say anything about Der-”  
  
“I promise you I will speak about this in general, not about anyone specific,” Addison interrupts. “But…yes. It gets good. It takes a little time to get comfortable with someone, and to…figure things out. It helps to pick the right people though, and even better if it’s someone you’re in love with and feel safe with. It gets good though. Good comes later, Amy. And then really good comes, if you’re with the right person.”

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Mark doesn’t touch her as she gives a slight pull on her pajama pants and then kicks them aside in a rumpled pile, and he also doesn’t touch her when she lifts her CBGB shirt over her head. Addison feels a little shy – and exposed, save a pair of lacy panties still banded around her hipbones, though the _exposed_ part honestly goes without saying – but there’s also something really, really sexy about Mark watching her undress, and then him continuing to watch as she stands before him almost completely naked. And open and vulnerable.  
  
“Pretty good?” She asks with a slight smile.   
  
Mark’s eyes climb up and down her body unabashedly. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re beautiful,” he adds, which prompts Addison to make a long “tttt” sound of disagreement. Not really though – she knows what she looks like, naked or otherwise. And it’s probably arrogant to think so (and a lifetime of having Bizzy as a mother means her self-esteem _does_ occasionally swoop up and down like a rollercoaster), but she knows that, objectively speaking, yes, she is beautiful. But still. She wasn’t…expecting that. Or expecting that from Mark, specifically, who is now winding his hands through her hair while smirking at the noise she made.   
  
“That’s a very feelings-y thing for you to say.” Addison wonders if it’s rude to tell him this, but Mark doesn’t seem offended. The hands he has fisted in her auburn hair tug lightly, just enough that her chin tilts towards the ceiling, and he licks the pale, soft skin under her jawbone before untangling his hands and resituating them on her hips.   
  
“Yeah, well…” he says, pausing until she looks at him. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lustful. “You’re beautiful and I want to fuck you.” Mark drops a hand between them, and Addison’s eyelashes flutter when his fingers first drag against her. “I can be both feeling-y and not feelings-y.”   
  
Addison marvels at his directness, that sheer honesty and unapologetic way with words. And even though she is thinking the same thing right now, is practically dripping about it, deep-seated WASP sensibilities make it so that she could never possibly say something like that aloud, or at least not the first time having sex with someone – but she absolutely wants to fuck and be fucked. And, it’s another study in objectivity: Mark is beautiful, too, even though it feels funny to her to describe a man that way. _He is though_ , she thinks as her hands clasp behind his neck and she can feel the ropy, defined muscles of his upper back beneath her fingertips. The pale blue eyes. The disarmingly gorgeous smile. The long, angular jawline. And his body…well. It’s kind of _ridiculous_ in its definition, honestly, with broad shoulders and taut, carved muscles lining his stomach and chest, and the tempting V-shape near the edge of his sweatpants. Addison sighs happily at the mostly naked sight of him, and leans into his chest when he urges her closer.   
  
She feels spellbound, molten-like in his embrace. Mark is unhurried at first, just methodically skimming two fingers between her legs, and though it really is just the subtlest movement over wet lace, it’s overwhelming to the point that the appreciative kisses Addison has been leaving below his collarbone segue into her just lazily resting her lips against his skin. She’s fairly still, and she figures she should probably feel a little bad that her current idea of reciprocity is basically just clinging to Mark in a loose hug, but he doesn’t seem to mind.   
  
_Respite_. Addison thinks of the paint color in the hallway again. That’s what this feels like. It’s real, it’s so damn real, but the sensations of her body flush against his and one hand of his spread across the small of her back and the other starting to increase the pace between her thighs feels dreamlike too, somehow. She’s not falling asleep, but she’s just…being lulled somehow. Or lulled along. It’s peaceful, even in the midst of the quickened breaths he is coaxing from her. And either Addison is matching her breathing to the rhythm between her legs, or Mark is soothing his fingers in time with each sharp inhale and warm, breathy exhale.   
  
“Feel good?” He whispers close to her ear.  
  
“Yeah. God…yeah. Although…” she almost groans in disappointment when his fingers still against her. “I might not be able to stay standing if you keep doing this to me.”   
  
Mark grins. The implication behind her throaty words is that he should _absolutely_ keep doing what he’s doing, of course. “We should get off our feet then,” he says.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Hey, Kitten…” the Captain pops his head into the kitchen, where twelve year-old Addison is mixing a drink for him: Vodka Tonic with lime, no ice. “Can you make two, please?” Addison glances up at this different-than-usual request, and notices her French tutor standing in her father’s shadow. “Jolie is going to stay a bit longer so I can talk to her about your lessons.”  
  
Addison clamps down hard on the inside of her cheek for moment. “Okay,” she answers with an edge in her tone, turning back to the highball glass in front of her. _Tu es un_ …she thinks, then pauses. _Liar_. She’s not sure what the translation for that one is. Perhaps she will ask Jolie during her next lesson…unless Bizzy quietly ends Addison’s lessons with this particular tutor in the coming days, even though the reason Bizzy will give isn’t the _real_ reason.  
  
“Thank you, Kitten. We’ll be in my study.”  
  
Addison sullenly reaches for another glass. She knows the drill. She’ll take the drinks to the Captain and his latest female visitor – and then he will tell her to go play in her room for a bit until her mother gets back and whatever Bizzy and the family’s chef have decided upon for dinner is ready to be served.   
  
_Kitten_. _Chaton_. _C’est un nom stupide_. The nickname from Addison’s father has always annoyed her. Kittens are tiny and cute, but not really anything else. And it’s kind of bullshit (not that she would say that word out loud in front of the Captain – nor does she know the French translation) as far as nicknames go, given that Addison isn’t even _allowed_ to have a kitten. Her parents don’t particularly care for animals. Indoor animals, that is. The Montgomerys have horses on the estate, but the horses have trainers and riders (and since Addison isn’t a particularly skilled rider, she doesn’t spend much time with them). Addison _did_ have a pet hermit crab for a little while that she won at a carnival, but the air filter was noisy so she shut it off, and then the hermit crab died. Bizzy told her this was not a good endorsement for having a kitten or puppy, even though Addison didn’t _know_ turning off the filter would have grave consequences.  
  
She thinks of the delayed tape airing she and her parents watched last night about the engagement of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. During the interview, Bizzy was flipping through a magazine and the Captain was attacking draft dissertations with a red pen, but they did pause long enough to laugh when Bizzy declared that Addison was apparently an Anglophile now. Addison was so enraptured by the interview – and hanging on every word and trying to guess where the almost-princess might have gotten her outfit – that she didn’t even think to ask what that meant. And then when the interviewer surmised that the couple was in love, the prince reported in his answer that love was “open to your own interpretation.”  
  
That part actually made Addison take her eyes off the TV to look at her parents. Weirdly, they seemed to genuinely like each other’s company, and although Addison did her absolute best to cover for her father, surely Bizzy knew he was not faithful to her. And yet, Bizzy didn’t leave. But neither did her father. They seemed almost happy together, sometimes.  
  
The interpretation of what love meant to _them_ was a strange one, apparently.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Fuck,” Addison murmurs, and Mark shifts his body a little against her stomach to ease her back down when she arches against the mattress and lifts her hips. His fingers inside her feel incredible, and even though he’s not touching her in another spot that she really, really wants him to sweep over, this act on its own is somehow still enough to make her pant with increasing regularity. Generally, fingers inside her don’t do much for her, and she’s not quite sure why, because Derek is a good lover when he’s present, and there were a few dalliances in college and in that summer before med school started where the men she was with were decent enough, or at least _tried_ to be somewhat conscious of her needs. But whenever she does feel that satisfying coil of tension tighten and then release, the fingers inside her never seem to have any role at all. If anything, they’re kind of a nuisance. She groans loudly. Not this time. And then she groans again – even louder – when Mark’s thumb finally grazes over her.  
  
“Sorry,” she says, and Mark, who has been alternating between making out with her and paying a lot of attention to her breasts while somehow managing to consistently keep his eyes on her, stops all ministrations. She gets the sense that watching women in the throes of pleasure is probably a turn-on for him. “I just...” she smirks. “I know I’m being…loud.”   
  
Mark smiles and rubs his nose against her sweat-glistened cheek. “Keep making noise,” he tells her. “You sound fucking incredible.” And then he keeps going, fastening his mouth around her nipple and moving his fingers inside her again.  
  
Addison has long since given up on doing something in return, because both times she attempted to slide her hand into Mark’s sweats, he batted her hand away, making it clear this is about her for a while (though undoubtedly this is enjoyable for him as well, and the noises he is drawing from her are probably doing wonders for his already over-inflated ego). Instead, Addison exchanges lazy, somewhat messy kisses with him whenever he’s not working his lips over her neck and breasts. She rests her hand lightly on his chest, and sometimes brushes at the salt and pepper hair near his temples and ears. Mostly though, regardless of what path her hands are pursuing, she looks at him, and he looks back at her, their foreheads almost touching. She did not expect this. She finds herself surprised at how attentive Mark is in bed so far, how utterly…unselfish he is. And this might be the first time she’s thought of him as _not_ selfish, even though he isn’t particularly selfish with the people he is closest with. And Addison is amazed at how aware of her body he seems to be, although she knows this has to be chalked up to an alarming amount of sexual experiences with an alarming number of women.   
  
And sex and everything that preceded sex with Derek was good. Really good, before separate lives and absenteeism settled over them. There was their honeymoon, for example, when they barely left the hotel. The place with the boat. The place with the big bed (and room service and the fireplace). A few memorable showers. The time on the kitchen floor. When they moved into the brownstone and christened every room. And all those times – _most_ times, honestly – that the physical feeling and their love for each other collided together. Thinking of their sex life in the past tense isn’t _entirely_ fair though, Addison knows, because it’s not a sexless marriage, or at least not yet; they typically do still have sex two or three times a month, save their latest dry spell. And while the sex isn’t necessarily boring, there’s no denying that ten years of marriage means the hot-bloodedness and ingenuity just isn’t there anymore. It’s biological rather than behavioral. But, most significantly for Addison, even though sex with Derek is still technically good, it’s now habitual, dutiful sex, and the intimacy seems to be lacking on her husband’s end (not that Addison has ever shared this observation with him), which means that even when they are together now, something is _missing_ for her.   
  
But absolutely nothing is missing right now. This experience with Mark is somehow filling _and_ fulfilling, even in the absence of love. It’s the newness of it, maybe. Or the thrill of it. Or perhaps it’s just Mark’s fingers inside her, and his tongue and mouth on her breasts.   
  
And then his thumb touches her differently and his two fingers flex and curl inside her, and Addison can feel the heartbeat that has been growing steadily between her legs reach a crescendo. Mark guides her to an overwhelming, staggering finish. It’s an earthquake and a volcano all at once as she cries out loudly and breaks apart beneath him.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison used to play dress-up sometimes if there were extra surgical gowns lying around in the lab while her father taught his Human Development and Anatomy class. The gowns were always comically large on her, but now – now they _fit_ , and she is wearing them for _not_ -pretend-purposes. This is real. And exciting. But also pretty scary.   
  
She is a medical student at Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia, probably only minutes away from getting to work on a (not alive) body for the first time. She feels grateful Naomi is in her group. She figures they will become friends, if only just by virtue of being the only two girls assigned to this particular cadaver. Naomi seems pretty connected with Sam though, who is standing on Naomi’s other side. Addison already knows Sam from her Histology and Pathology class (he currently looks very, very nervous) and it doesn’t take long to figure out Sam and Naomi are a couple. Naomi quietly asks Addison if they should introduce themselves to the two men on the other side of the table, who appear deep in conversation.   
  
“Hi,” Addison says without giving it another thought. She’s not particularly shy or introverted anymore. Getting out of her childhood home has done wonders for her. “I’m Addison. And,” she tilts her head slightly, “this is Naomi and Sam.”  
  
“Nice to meet you.” The one directly across from Addison says. She can’t see the lower half of his face due to the surgical mask, but she can tell he smiles as he returns her greeting. And he has beautiful eyes. The man with the hidden smile and beautiful eyes holds out a gloved hand, and Addison holds hers out in response, both of them amused at the strange idea of shaking hands over a cadaver. And although it is a bit strange, yes, a lot of things about being in med school and being a grownup really _are_ just strange. “I’m Derek.”  
  
Derek then shakes hands with Naomi, and then Sam, who the other guy has just finished introducing himself to. Addison waits patiently, and then Derek’s friend – she can just tell they are friends – looks at her. He has nice eyes, too.  
  
“Addison?” Derek’s friend repeats, to make sure he has it right, and she nods. “I’m Mark.” He sneaks his arm under Derek’s extended one, which has just finished shaking hands with Sam. This makes Addison laugh while she reaches for his hand.  
  
“Yes, why bother to wait two seconds,” Derek says sarcastically, and nudges Mark with his elbow. “Mr. Manners over here.”  
  
Mark shrugs with a playful grin. “Well, for one thing,” he says, glancing away from Addison and back to Derek, “of the two of us, I’ve never claimed to be the good one.”

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
She needs a few minutes. Well, more than a few minutes, probably, after that. But they’ve started kissing again, and even though there is still some sensitivity humming between Addison’s thighs, she hooks a long leg around Mark, drawing him closer. He mumbles something about a condom that she only half-hears in her current state of euphoria, and he rolls away from her. She almost manages a laugh at the word _condom_ when Mark gets out of bed. It’s been so many years since condoms were even a thought for her. She shifts onto her back, eyes closed, and although it sincerely doesn’t matter, she tries to imagine where Mark has stored it, and, because _it’s Mark_ , she thinks when she hears a foil packet being gently torn open – how _many_ condoms he currently has on him.  
  
But then he’s back, the mattress rasping underneath him, and Addison opens her eyes, and there he is – naked, finally naked – and he’s settling on top of her. She wraps one of her legs around him in encouragement, and then he pushes into her. She gasps slightly at the feeling. He’s bigger than Derek. Like, _quite_ a bit bigger. Not that she plans on sharing this observation.  
  
“Okay?” Mark asks quietly when she briefly tightens around him.  
  
“Yeah,” she answers with a smile, relaxing her muscles and inhaling deeply as her body adjusts to accommodate him. And then she’s definitely okay. More than okay. She draws her knees up a little further. “I’m good. Really good. It’s just…been a little while for me.” She is almost embarrassed about this, even though it’s true. It has been awhile. Since she’s had sex. And since, Addison realizes with a start, since she’s felt _this_ way – this excited – about having someone inside her.   
  
Mark returns her smile, and looks as though he is concealing a chuckle. “It’s like riding a bicycle.” He reaches a hand up to rest it against the side of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair. “Tell me…” he says as he starts to move above her, “if there’s anything you want.” He pauses, lets out a quiet groan, and buries his face against her neck, sucking hard on a stretch of skin below her ear. “From me.” And then his lips are briefly back on hers again. He swallows one of Addison’s moans when he flicks his tongue against hers. “So that I’m making it feel good for you.” He keeps moving, rocking and cantering his hips in a way that feels amazing, and he looks at her, waiting for some sort of acknowledgment.  
  
“You’re making me feel incredible,” Addison manages to say between pants. “God, Mark.”   
  
Addison feels a twinge of regret about how she worded this. It feels far, far too intimate to whisper his name like that. But then she stops thinking entirely because he really _is_ making her feel incredible. She can’t imagine ever being able to bring herself to tell him exactly what she wants – at least not this time, and it will only be _this_ time, anyway, she reminds herself, as more rounds of thunder set in motion above them across the sky – but somehow Mark just knows what she wants. Her body is the map, and his hips and fingers move over the terrain with ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> The whole “good came later” bit with Amelia (Amy) was pulled from an Addison/Adele conversation in Grey’s 2x26 about their first sexy times: “Good came later. And then really good came.” Addison also told Amelia “all about birth control when she didn’t know who to ask.” She also did her hair for prom, and took her to get her ears pierced (PP, 5x08).
> 
> The place with the boat and the place with the (big) bed – these are mentioned in a really cute Addison/Derek deleted scene from Grey’s season 2…shortly after Doc decided to chew up a $900 shoe of Addison’s.
> 
> Addison did have a hermit crab and she turned the filter off, so it died. :( She was also able to make the Captain’s drinks by the time she was eight, and the Captain did sleep with her French tutor.
> 
> Addison and Derek met in med school. Our eyes met over the cadaver…listen. If you know, you know. You either know the love song or you don’t (first Grey’s/PP crossover).
> 
> Oh boy, here’s a long one. Per Private Practice, it was discovered that Sam asked Addison out first, but she turned him down because she knew Naomi liked him, and honestly, that detail just made me so, so sad, and I truly don’t believe it would have been incorporated into the show unless: 1) the intent, at least at one point before the writers changed direction, was to make Addison/Sam endgame; and 2) to make it less weird for people to digest that Addison gets together with her best friend’s ex-husband. Because otherwise, that detail feels so unnecessary and just…hurtful to Naomi? Not that Sam ever shared or would share that with Naomi, but if he did, I imagine there would be so, so many things about Naomi’s former marriage that she would have questioned (as far as Sam’s feelings for her). ANYWAY. I swear I remember hearing/seeing that Naomi and Sam met as undergrads, and at one point Naomi made a comment to Addison about having been married to Sam for 17 or 18 years (can’t remember which, and I’m not gonna dig through episodes trying to figure this out), so presumably they were together in college and got married fairly young, based on their ages at the end of Private Practice and factoring in that they were already divorced when Addison first moved to LA. Again, none of this actually matters, but I REFUSE to incorporate any details about Sam asking Addison out first because that just breaks my heart, and apparently it’s important for me to share these thoughts with the universe, apparently.


	8. Our Accomplice is the Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from the song “From the Ground Up,” by Sleeping At Last.

**Chapter 8. Our Accomplice is the Rain**  
  
_Addison is fun_ , Mark thinks. It’s not the most sentimental thought, but there is just no way around it. Addison is fun and she is clearly _having_ fun…and that makes it really, really fun for Mark too, even when he does everything he can to ensure her needs come before his own. Each wild cry from her and the way her body strains underneath him spurs him on.  
  
There are other things too, of course. Addison is responsive to every touch and the noises she makes are intoxicating. Her hair feels good whenever it tickles against his skin. The heat of her smolders him even through latex. She’s beautiful and she looks great naked; her body might as well be a damn template for prospective patients who come to Mark for consults, in search of different shapes and enhancements and anything else that typically makes the woman currently moaning yearningly in Mark’s embrace dismiss the majority of things he does with his hands as _frivolous_.  
  
Mark’s hands definitely aren’t being met with judgment now though. He slips one between their bodies and increases his speed above her. Addison has been watching him with an expression he can’t quite figure out, but when his fingers caress her, it doesn’t take long for her to tighten around him. Her eyes flutter closed, and her groans and pants land warmly against Mark’s skin. He feels an urge to kiss her eyelids, but knows better than to alter his rhythm now.  
  
They finish together. It vaguely surprises Mark they were able to share this moment, especially during their first ( _and only_ , he reminds himself) time together, that elusive holy grail of perfectly timed, synchronized pleasure. He wonders if it means anything, or at least anything beyond the fact that Addison is clearly able to hold out as long as he can. Mark thinks again about kissing her eyelids, but his face is buried in the slope between her neck and shoulder and he’s too tired to move just yet. Her muscles continue to tense lightly around him, and he grunts, enjoying the sensation. When Addison finally relaxes, he still doesn’t want to move – even though he really does need to get up – and discovers he _can’t_. Not with her legs still locked around his hips like this. Addison apparently doesn’t mind that his full weight is on top of her. She plays lightly with the short ends of his hair with her fingertips, and runs her other palm along his upper back.  
  
“That expression about riding a bicycle…” she says, laughing breathlessly and cracking apart the silence of the afterglow. “I was never very good at riding one. I fell off my bike once at my parents’ country house and scraped up my whole face.”  
  
Mark grins into her sweat-glistened neck. “You’re really good at sex though.” He threads his fingers through her mussed-up hair, moving a few strands away from her face. “You might kill me if you get any better at it, actually.” He inhales slowly. Even with the layer of sweat clinging to her, Addison still smells good at her pulse points. Some sort of vanilla-scented perfume, maybe. “I like you like this,” he adds.  
  
“Naked?”  
  
“Well, that, sure. But I meant…” Mark hesitates, feeling a little foolish. “Happy.”  
  
Addison’s nose brushes against his ear as she rests her head closer to him. “Yeah,” she murmurs in agreement. “It’s been…a long time since I’ve gotten to be happy…to feel this way. Thank you, Mark. For making me feel happy.” She untangles her legs from around his hips, and a satisfying ache rolls through them both as she stretches out beneath him.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Age has bruised him. Life has bruised him. And today, Mark thinks as he pointedly ignores the firm rap of knuckles against his apartment door, _loss_ has bruised him.   
  
Mark knows who is knocking, and how Addison either evaded the doorman or convinced the doorman to just let her go up to Mark’s floor without contacting him first, he isn’t sure. He also knows she has a key though, in the same way he has one to the brownstone. If Mark waits long enough, she’ll let herself in. That way he doesn’t have to get up from the couch.   
  
Addison knocks a second time, and then he hears the scrape of the key and watches the doorknob twist. Mark feels a twinge of regret flood through him when he sees that Addison is wearing scrubs – she clearly left NYP soon after she saw the text message he sent to her and Derek.  
  
“Hi,” she says, a little out of breath as her eyes meet his. “I came as soon as I got out of my last surgery.” She steps inside and shuts the door behind her. “Derek should be here in like an hour. He was just finishing up for the day, and I told him I would come check on you first.”  
  
“You didn’t have to,” Mark says, but he gestures to the empty cushion beside him so that Addison knows her presence isn’t necessarily unwelcome. “He doesn’t have to come either.”  
  
“But I wanted to.” Addison sits down beside him, close enough that their legs are almost touching. “ _We_ wanted to. I don’t have to stay though. I just…I just wanted to tell you in person how very sorry I am, Mark.”  
  
“Thank you. It’s not like…it’s not like we were close though.”  
  
“But that doesn’t mean it’s not difficult. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent, to lose my mother, but still…” Addison takes a deep breath. “We’re here for you. And I’m here for you right now. We can just sit here, or drink, or watch TV, or play a board game, or pray, or whatever…or I can leave, too. Whatever you want is fine – I won’t be offended if you want to be alone right now. And I know I could have just taken the hint when you didn’t call me back or respond to any of my texts, but I guess I just wanted you to know there are other options, besides saying it’s okay and that you don’t need anything. People show up for people. Friends show up for friends.”  
  
Mark manages a weak smile. “I’m not convinced you know how to pray.”   
  
“Neither do you, I bet,” Addison replies. “I mostly said that one as a joke.”  
  
“I’m glad you’re here, Red, and I want you to stay, but…you’ll look away if I start crying, right?” Mark doesn’t think he will, despite how tight his throat has been ever since Everett called him this morning with the news, but he wants to issue the warning anyway, just to be safe.  
  
“Yes. I promise.”  
  
“I guess we could play Settlers of Catan or something when Derek gets here. But he – I mean, Addison if he’s had a long day, he doesn’t -”  
  
“Derek _wants_ to be here. You know, one time, when he was a kid living through one of the worst days of his life, his best friend came over. And his best friend also gave his mother flowers, and Carolyn appreciated them so much that she dried and pressed them. Did you know that? She still has them in her room somewhere. I’m just saying…” Addison’s voice catches. “I’m just saying that even if there isn’t anything you can really say or do at a time like this…sometimes you can just sit in a person’s pain with them.”  
  
“I stole the flowers,” Mark says hoarsely. He stares straight ahead and pauses to do some calculation. He is thirty-three now, which meant Christopher Shepherd was killed twenty-one years ago. “Jenny didn’t have any cash in her wallet. And she was…taking a nap. A tranquilizer and alcohol-induced nap. Because that was her life. She could function, and she always came alive at night to go out with my dad, but she wasn’t…” Mark shakes his head. “You know, there were times after Derek’s dad died that I thought…what an absolute waste of a fucking person my mother is…and yet, it was _Derek’s_ parent who died, and not…not…I know that’s a horrible thing to think…”  
  
Mark angles his head as far away from Addison as he can and presses his chin into his collarbone when tears start to fall. She rests a hand on his upper back, but remains quiet, save for a rustling sound that he assumes is her rummaging through whatever designer purse or handbag she’s carting around today.   
  
“I’m not looking at you,” Addison says delicately. “I’m just…rubbing your back and handing these to you in case for whatever reason you need them.” She holds out a pocket pack of tissues, keeping her eyes trained forward as Mark accepts them and his fingers shakily peel back the sticky part securing the pack. “You can keep them,” she adds. “Take the whole thing, it’s fine.”  
  
“It’s okay.” Mark dabs at his eyes, feeling self-conscious. “I…I think I have tissues somewhere around here.”  
  
“On your nightstand, I assume.”  
  
Mark continues wiping at his tear-dampened face, and it takes a few seconds, but then he grins widely as he understands the implications of what she is hinting at. “Damn it, Red,” he says, turning to face her. “That was really funny.”  
  
Addison smiles sheepishly. “I know. I’m pretty proud of that one. And…sufficiently grossed out with myself that _this_ is the kind of humor I’d resort to, but I figured it would make you laugh.” She tips her head against his shoulder. “Love you, Mark,” she says. “And I’m sorry for your loss, as trite as that sounds.”  
  
“Love you too, Addison,” he answers, thinking absently how weird it is that people always drop the _I_ when they want this phrase to sound more informal, more safe-sounding. “And I love Derek also, for the record,” he tacks on, because it’s true.  
  
“I know. And he loves you back.”   
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison and Derek utilize a cleaning service for their Montauk house that Mark imagines includes discretion as part of the housecleaning plan, but as he drops a tissue-wrapped condom into the waste basket, he makes a mental note to take the trash out later anyway.  
  
_Addison was happy_ , Mark thinks as he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He made her happy. And he was happy, too.   
  
He splashes a little water on his face, and then heads back into the bedroom. Addison is sitting on the edge of the bed and has shrugged her CBGB shirt back on – they are half-naked opposites at the moment, since Mark put his sweatpants back on. She smiles shyly when Mark approaches her.  
  
“Hi,” she whispers, tipping her head up to maintain eye contact with him when he pauses directly in front of her.  
  
“Hi.” Mark nudges gently on her shoulder, pushing her back down on the mattress. Addison props up on her elbows immediately though, her mouth rounding in a question. “I’m making you happy again,” he answers before she can ask. “Just one more time.”  
  
“You don’t have to…”  
  
“I want to.” Mark kneels down and tugs on her hips to draw her closer to him, ignoring her surprised squeak when he drapes her long legs over his shoulders. “It’s funny how women always seem to think this is a chore for men, and it’s really not.” _Not if you’re doing it right_ , he knows.   
  
“But I – Mark, I don’t think…” Addison trails off as a blush skirts across her cheeks.  
  
“Don’t think what?” He asks casually and feigning innocence, which feels a little mean. Addison is too embarrassed to say she doesn’t think there’s any way she can climax again – at least not yet. “It’s okay. I don’t have to, if you don’t want me to,” Mark adds lightly. He _does_ have to though. If Addison declines, then of course he’ll back off, but Mark knew as soon as he walked out of the bathroom that he can’t kid himself into just thinking this is about her, about keeping her happy.  
  
“I don’t…” the pinkness in Addison’s face is still prominent, but when Mark rests his cheek again her thigh, his stubble inadvertently making her leg twitch, he can see the color starting to spread down Addison’s chest, her skin flushing in a different way now. “I mean, I _do_ want you to.” She grins and raises an eyebrow. “Just go slowly, at first. I don’t think I’ve quite recovered yet.”  
  
Mark didn’t get a chance to do this with her earlier, and while there are a lot of things and different positions he’d love to try with Addison because she really is a lot of fun, nothing seems to come close to this particular act. Mark has to _know_. He has to know what she tastes like; he has to know just how much of a frenzy he can work her into, especially when he adds his fingers and starts to move them faster; he has to know what it will feel like for him from this angle when she arches underneath him, if the sounds she makes will drive him just as crazy as the ones she made earlier; and he has to know if her fingertips will brush gently, tenderly at his hair while he spends time between her legs, just like they did earlier when he was inside her.  
  
Mostly though, Mark realizes as Addison starts to rock her hips against his mouth and her breathing becomes more labored and she mumbles a plea of _don’_ _t stop_ – because yes, she absolutely can come again, and Mark knew that right away, and knew he would be the one to get her there – he knows that he doesn’t want this to be _over_ , yet.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“What’s this stupid line about bears and lions?” Mark asks, leaning over Derek’s shoulder.  
  
“It’s the mascot for both our undergrads…” Derek tells him. He studies what he wrote again, and frowns. “It was just an idea, but I guess it doesn’t really fit anywhere.”  
  
“No, and don’t try to fancy it up: you were a _polar_ bear. And yeah, yeah – I know mine was worse.” Mark smirks. He applied to a lot of colleges and got into most, but, like Addison, he figured it was in his best interest to hop a state over to get away from his parents. And he has no regrets; he enjoyed his time at UPenn. “Your future wife thinks so, at least,” Mark adds. “That was when I knew I would be friends with her, by the way: she hadn’t known me that long yet, but she looked me dead in eye and said she was amused by the idea of me being a _Quaker_.”  
  
“I’m sure you had some sort of inappropriate comeback when she made fun of you for having such an anti-Quaker personality,” Derek says while crossing out another line. “But I do appreciate that you guys like each other. It would have been kinda tricky to navigate all this if you didn’t. And she also doesn’t care that you call her ‘Red.’ I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who calls her that, actually.”  
  
Mark’s friendship with Derek has evolved over time. They are still close, of course, but they are older now, which inevitably means the landscape of their relationship has changed. And Derek just keeps growing up, and while Mark is growing alongside Derek, he hasn’t exactly grown _up_. He isn’t quite sure how to grow up, honestly. And now Mark is helping his grown up best friend – his _engaged_ grown up best friend – write a love song for his future wife. As for Mark? He’s had plenty of girlfriends, but nothing serious or long-term. Most of the women he’s been with are just…boring, uninspiring, and not particularly witty. Even Derek has commented on this. Mark knows that he needs someone who can challenge him more, and someone with a brain as talented as her mouth. That might be a nice combination. _My own version of an Addison_ , Mark thinks, because even though neither Mark or Derek would ever admit it, she is infinitely smarter than them both. And she’s also fun to spend time with.  
  
“That one right there…” Mark points to a half-complete line. “Finish it with ‘Gross Anatomy class with Addison’s fine ass.’” He grins, pleased with himself.  
  
Derek lets out a short, barking laugh. “That’s good – or that’s _something_ at least, but I’d rather you didn’t comment on my future wife’s ass. Or look at it. The ‘we’ve always had the same taste in women’ joke is only funny when it’s applying to someone unattainable – like Linda Evangelista or something – not a real-life person I was somehow lucky enough to land.”  
  
“Yeah, you definitely out-kicked your coverage with Red. But hey, at least I didn’t _insult_ her ass. And I’m not looking at it. The line fits though, and she’ll like it. You gotta have a few funny ones in there. It should be short and sweet though. You can scratch the whole third verse.”  
  
“I guess her mom and dad will think the ‘Addison’s fine ass’ line is crude. So…” Derek smiles with happiness. “That’s a plus. Okay. You get credit for that one and I’ll be sure to keep you in the loop once the royalties start rolling in. No more inappropriate lines though.”  
  
“Bummer, because for my next one…what if after you say, ‘Gross Anatomy class with Addison’s fine ass…’ you then say, ‘as soon as we started the dissection, I got a massive -”  
  
“Stop.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Are you okay?” Mark asks. They are lying next to each other afterwards, hands tucked behind their heads and elbows just a hairsbreadth away from touching.  
  
Addison tilts her head towards him, her hair fanned out behind her on her pillow. “I mean.” A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. “I might not be able to walk straight, if I can even walk at _all_ , but otherwise…yes.”  
  
“Sorry-not-sorry about that part, but that wasn’t…quite in the way that I meant it. Or what I’m specifically asking, I guess,” Mark says gravely.  
  
“Oh, right.” Addison nods slowly. “Yes…I’m okay. Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah. But this isn’t…I generally don’t cheat, you know.” It’s mostly true, after all. And for some reason, it feels important for Addison to know this.  
  
“I know,” she replies. “I didn’t really think this is your MO, Mark. And I…I’m not a cheater generally, either. I mean…” she sucks in a nervous breath. “I’ve never cheated. Ever.”  
  
“Just during Settlers of Catan.”  
  
“That was one time. And I’m pretty convinced you cheated, too, but you got a pass because that was a rough day for you,” Addison says. They lie in silence for a few minutes then, just two pulses in a light-filled room. “I feel guilty,” she finally adds, pushing up into a sitting position. “But I don’t regret this. I don’t regret you and I don’t regret _this_. And I know that’s a horribly selfish outlook because there’s no way to get around the fact that this is adultery, pure and simple, but it’s just how I’m feeling right now, and…anyway. I should…” her voice briefly goes brittle, but then she takes a slow, measured breath and it vaults back to its normal cadence. “I should go back to my room.”  
  
Mark keeps his voice neutral as she climbs out of bed and steps into her pajama bottoms. “Okay.”  
  
“Thank you, Mark.” Addison’s hand briefly touches her chest. “I feel…I feel much better now.”  
  
“Good. I’m glad you feel better. Hey…Addison?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
He points out a lacy piece of fabric Addison has apparently overlooked in her haste to get out of the guest room. “As much as I wouldn’t mind stashing them in my pocket, you should probably take your panties with you, too.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Mark?” Mrs. Garcia’s voice echoes over the sound of Mark’s sixth grade class clambering out the heavy door to head to the cafeteria for lunch. “Can you please hang back for a second?” Mark rolls his eyes as a few typical, teasing “Ooo” sounds from his classmates follow, but he turns back and walks up to Mrs. Garcia’s desk. He can’t think of anything he did today to get in trouble, but even if he _did_ do something wrong, usually flashing Mrs. Garcia a smile helps to soften her. She likes Mark, and she seems to recognize that he is incredibly intelligent – possibly more so than Derek, one of her other shining pupils – but that a fair amount of patience and tolerance is required when it comes to educating Mark Sloan.  
  
Mrs. Garcia’s lips pleat into a thin line. “I was wondering if you had any contact with Derek this weekend…did you hear from him or his family yesterday?”  
  
Mark shakes his head. “No,” he says. That’s not super unusual though. It’s spring, so baseball takes up most of Mark’s weekends, and Derek usually goes with his dad to his store on Sundays. Derek isn’t at school today, which _is_ a little weird because Derek never misses school, but everyone gets sick from time to time (Mark can only imagine though how devastated his friend will be to miss out on a Perfect Attendance certificate this year).  
  
“Derek is okay, but…” Mrs. Garcia’s brown eyes fill with tears, and Mark glances away, uncomfortable in the face of this unexpected emotion. “Something happened yesterday at Mr. Shepherd’s store, Mark. I’m going to let the rest of the class know after lunch, but I wanted to talk to you first…”   
  
As soon as school gets out, Mark quickly walks off campus, determined not to talk to anyone in the few blocks it takes him to get home. He decides he will go to the Shepherds’ house. Even if they aren’t home, or don’t want to answer the door, he can at least leave something for them.  
  
When Mark gets home, he finds Jenny asleep (not surprising, and he knows the correct term is _passed out_ – so waking her up just isn’t worth all the time it will take). He rummages through her purse, but can’t find any cash. Mark sighs in disappointment as he writes a note so his mother will know where he is in the event she wakes up before six. He spies a hair tie in Jenny’s purse though, so he takes that – it doesn’t exactly match the rubber bands he has seen that neatly bind store-bought bouquets, but it’s probably close enough – and on the fifteen-minute walk to Derek’s house, he stealthily takes what he can from various front yards along the walk, mindful not to take more than one or two flowers from each yard. The end result is a small, droopy cluster of pansies, petunias, and shell-pink carnations Mark nervously holds out to a wan-faced, teary-eyed Mrs. Shepherd when she opens the front door.  
  
“Oh, Mark. Thank you. These are beautiful.” Carolyn really does seem to like the flowers Mark brought her, but Mark is certain she knows this arrangement was put together in a more unconventional, non-store way. “Derek is in the den with the girls. You can go in there. He’s not really saying much right now, but I’m sure he’d love if you just stayed with him for a little bit.” Carolyn swallows heavily as she pulls Mark into her arms, careful not to crush the flowers between them. “You’re such a good boy, Mark. You’re a good person.”  
  
. .   
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Can I join you?”  
  
Mark is able to stop himself from jumping at the sound of the shower door being slid open behind him, but he still turns around with an expression of surprise when he finds Addison poking her head through the door. Mist stirs around her, but not enough to obscure the appealing visual; Addison is already naked.  
  
It’s a far cry away from the woman last night who, yes, ended up being sensual and confident and passionate in his arms, but initially, that wasn’t entirely true – Addison was a little shy and self-conscious at first. Mark caught the moment when she took her shirt off and her arms stiffened at her sides so she wouldn’t bring them up to cover herself. There’s that. She has to know now though, that not only is Mark bad, but he’s _weak_ – he will never deny her anything. _She’s probably known that all along_ , he figures. Once she went back to her room last night, Mark thought about her earlier words: _Tell me no and I’ll go back to bed. Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me no_. By saying that, did it mean she decided their fate, or had he? Addison told him recently about a pick-a-door story she’d read as a little girl, something about a lady and a tiger. Trial by ordeal. This isn’t really all that different, is it?  
  
“I’m definitely not saying ‘no’ to your fine ass,” Mark says in response to Addison’s question, and goes as far as to take a big, inviting step back. “But you know it’s not the weekend anymore, right?” They are planning to head back to Manhattan this afternoon.  
  
Addison smiles at this comment. “Well, it might be Monday, but it’s still technically _our_ weekend. I just…I just kind of want to make the most of the time we have left, since once we leave here…” she shrugs limply as she steps into the shower. “This can’t happen after we leave the Hamptons, so I thought we could just…”  
  
“Tear one off for old times’ sake?” Mark asks as she comes over to him and runs her hands over his chest. Her smile lengthens at this comment, and her fingernails disrupt the beads of water clinging to him and streams lacing down his body.   
  
“Something like that.”  
  
Mark dips his head to kiss her. She returns this gesture eagerly, moving her tongue over his, and he takes a moment in between kisses to shuffle them around so that the majority of the water coming down is raining against her hair and shoulders. Addison then slides a hand down his stomach without warning, and her fingers curl around Mark to hold him in her hand.   
  
She smirks when she hears the change in his breathing, and peers up at him with water-coated eyelashes. “I want you to be happy too, Mark,” she says.  
  
“Trust me: I’m very happy right now, Addison…growing happier by the second. You’re a lot of fun, you know. But I…” he walks her backwards until she is pressed against the slippery wall tiles, trapped between him and the wall. “Sorry.” He murmurs when she briefly tenses at the coolness of the tiles. “I don’t think I can wait anymore.” He can tell from the look on her face that she’s perfectly okay with this, and then she circles her arms around the back of his neck in encouragement.  
  
“Condom?” She asks while he sweeps his tongue over water droplets lingering on her jawline.  
  
“I don’t have another one.” The face Addison makes when Mark says this is so comically sad that he almost laughs. “I only brought one and it was…I didn’t even bring it, really. It was already in my bag. I wasn’t exactly _planning_ on having sex this weekend, Addie. What did you think I was going to do? Just ditch you for Married Tessa or go out for the night and leave you here by yourself?” Mark shakes his head. He probably hasn’t done much of anything to change Addison and Derek’s perception of his lifestyle, but Mark definitely has less of a nightlife now. Oh, he still has plenty of fun and he doesn’t sleep alone consistently, but he’s also _tired_ now, too. Thirty-seven means he keeps Ibuprofen in more than one location, can pull a muscle even when he isn’t doing anything, and owns an alarming number of “staying in” clothes. Sex is great, but honestly, so is getting somewhere upwards of five hours of sleep. “Aren’t you on…the pill or something?”   
  
“I am. That’s not…” she gives him a discomfiting smile when he places a hand on her hip. “That’s not exactly why I’m bringing up condoms, Mark.”  
  
“Oh. I’m clean. And I always use condoms with other women.” This is true. Yes, there have been a few instances of negligence over the years, and he’s not factoring in actual relationships where there was some exclusivity (not that there have been many, and definitely none in about three years), but no condom-less hiccups in the past year come to mind, and Mark really would be honest if that was the case. The last thing he wants is the three of them all showing up at the pharmacy for special antibiotics. “You can trust me. Let’s be happy again.” Mark’s hand stays where it is though, in deference to her. She can choose their fate, this time. “I swear I’m always careful, but…” he smiles slowly, wheels turning with a joke that is only half-kidding. “If you’d rather I use a condom, don’t think I won’t jump out of this shower and sprint naked to the closest store to get one. Because I would.”  
  
Addison giggles. “It’s okay. I trust you. And…” her voice lowers, throaty enough that Mark feels it everywhere. She grins when he knows where she is going with this, and Mark puts his hands underneath her to slide her up the wall. “I want you. And more.” She clenches her muscles around Mark when he pushes inside her. “Mm. I want more.”  
  
They wash each other off afterwards, taking their time as water and body wash sluices down their sated bodies. _Washing each other away, actually_ , Mark thinks.   
  
Addison wanted more, and she got it. But that’s also what happens as soon as they begin the process of getting ready to leave this weekend in the past. Life becomes a little “more” in its complexities and its emotions, for the both of them.   
  
And life becomes harder, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> Grey’s 6x20, Mark speaking to Arizona: “My mom is dead. My dad is never going to get off the couch again. I don't have any brothers or sisters. This is my grandson. My grandson. I'm not just gonna turn him over to some strangers when I might have a chance at a family. So just, give me a minute here.” We really don’t know much about Mark’s family, other than this detail, and: 1) his parents went out a lot at night, and that, per Mark, 2) he doesn’t really have a family – he considers Derek his family (Grey’s 3x12). I’ve always felt Mark’s desire for a family sometimes trumps his desire for a relationship – not that a family and relationship can’t be one and the same, but Mark has always seemed to place an emphasis on the former, and I’m sure it stems from having a lonely, neglect-filled life within the walls of his childhood home.
> 
> The old times’ sake comment is in reference to Mark talking to Addison in Grey’s 4x13 (her first time being back at Seattle Grace after relocating): “What do you say we lock that door and tear one off for old times’ sake?” And the “fun” line was a nod to the greatest Mark/Addison sex scene to ever grace our TVs (PP 3x11).
> 
> “Gross Anatomy class with Addison’s fine ass” was indeed a Mark-created line in the love song Derek wrote and sang at his and Addison’s wedding. And Mark did tell Meredith that he and Derek have always had the same taste in women. Annnnd the panties comment is of course a nod to dumbass Derek putting Meredith’s panties in his “bad tux” (Addison’s words, not mine) at the end of Grey’s season 2.
> 
> I don’t know for sure that Christopher is Mr. Shepherd’s name, but it was Derek’s middle name, and Amelia named her first son Christopher, so I think in all likelihood, that’s his name (correct me if I’m missing something, but I don’t think they ever mentioned his name)


	9. Flash Floods Don’t Retreat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Antlers.

**Chapter 9. Flash Floods Don’t Retreat**  
  
It is a mostly quiet ride back to Manhattan, with occasional spikes of chatter that drift between simple and strategic. Mark talks about what he has scheduled surgery-wise later this week. Addison shares a little about the book Archer has coming out. Mark reminds her that he told Derek he was taking the train yesterday…not driving back with her. And Addison tells Mark that when they pull up to his apartment and switch seats so she can continue on to Central Park West (God forbid Mark let her drive _her own car_ ), that will be the point at which the adulterous, steamier parts of their weekend will cease to exist.  
  
Addison turns to gaze at Mark when an eruption of orange leaves sprinkle onto and then over the windshield, carried away by a breeze. _You feel it too, right?_ she thinks as they cross East 88th. _The worry that despite everything I’m saying, there’s no way things can be normal again? And that it won’t be easy to not think about what happened?_ Addison also finds herself a little afraid of the possibility of losing Mark. Derek is…well, he’s Derek, currently. And Naomi lives on the other side of the country. Savvy is a good friend, but like Addison, she works long hours, and current circumstances dictate they are most likely to see each other in a doctor-patient role; Savvy is in her second trimester now. And Addison has a handful of other friends and some friends that belong to the Montgomery-Shepherds as a couple, but none of them are people she is super close with. She really can’t maintain deep friendships, not with the kind of job she has. It is a bit peculiar then to think that, if just by default, Mark probably _is_ her best friend.  
  
“Oh. Thank you…” Addison murmurs when he puts on the hazard lights and comes around to open her door at pretty much the exact moment she is opening it herself. “So. Um. Before I go mute on the subject forever – and I hope saying _thanks_ doesn’t make you feel like a prostitute or something – but I did just want to say…thanks. Thank you, Mark, for this weekend.”  
  
“Why? Nothing happened this weekend,” Mark says, and Addison’s smile is partially hidden as she tucks her chin into her oversized scarf. “I…” he shrugs, unsure of what else to say. “I had a really fun time doing ‘nothing’ with you. So…if I don’t see you at the hospital beforehand, I guess I’ll see you Thursday night?”  
  
Addison’s eyebrows crease. “At…at what?” And then she feels a stab of discouragement when Mark tells her Derek invited him over to watch a football game. Apparently her husband _is_ able to commit to plans and spend time with others. Just not with her. Not anymore. Addison masks her pain for the time being though and exchanges a few more meaningless words with Mark, but when they go to say goodbye, she starts to giggle.  
  
“Did you just… _pat_ my shoulder?”  
  
“Red, what am I supposed to do? Just…give you a hug and act like everything is normal?” And then Mark grins, realizing he has answered his own question. “Right. C’mere, you.” He pulls her into his arms for a quick hug, as though nothing has changed. And then they trade places, as though it really is that simple. “Bye. I’ll see you Thursday.”  
  
But Mark does not see her on Thursday.  
  
He waits until after kickoff to bring it up. “Is Addison still at the hospital?” He asks casually.  
  
“Red is indeed still at the hospital,” Derek answers, and Mark doesn’t like how he says the word _Red_. Derek never calls Addison that, and the way in which he spits it out now feels scornful, petty. “You’ll notice though that I’m not huffing about it – that’s the difference. One of the differences, anyway. Sometimes I think this just isn’t…there’s like this drowning element that...” Derek leans forward when a 30-yard pass is successfully completed. “Hey! There we go. They’re actually looking good tonight.” And then he turns to face Mark, who has gone perfectly still, waiting for his friend to finish his thought.  
  
“You want another beer?” Derek says instead.  
  
“Oh.” Mark clears his throat. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”  
  
Derek doesn’t return to whatever it was he was trying to say. And Mark can’t bring himself to ask.  
  
Addison has told Mark before that of course Derek has emergencies and practice-related things that can keep him from getting home at a decent hour, but she has wondered from time to time if Derek creates delays because he doesn’t want to be _here_. Mark considers that something similar is going on right now, that maybe Addison doesn’t feel comfortable being here while he’s here, and has decided to stay at NYP late rather than face him.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison works her teeth punishingly hard along the inside of her left cheek until she is in danger of drawing blood. _Pull it together_ , she thinks, crossing her arms tighter over her sweater. She should have grabbed a coat before coming outside. _This is ridiculous. How is it that you_ _can separate fetal blood vessels, but are incapable of cooking a turkey_?  
  
“Just give me a second, Derek,” she says when she hears one of the arched double front doors open behind her. “I’ll be right in.”  
  
“It’s not Derek.”  
  
Addison smiles tightly at the sound of Mark’s voice. “You two are like the same person sometimes. You both open and close doors in this really quiet, measured way. So…” she tries harder to stretch her smile out, to appear amused. “How are the hot dogs coming along?”  
  
“Oh, you know. They’re all hot dog-ish and stuff. Derek’s got about ten more to do. It could have been a worse alternative meal, I guess,” Mark says mildly. He didn’t want to come today – and obviously he felt a strong urge to leave as soon as Nancy left the table to vomit, at which point a lot of non-vomit noise and drama ensued over Addison serving them a still-a-little-raw turkey. Mark didn’t have much of a choice though; it hasn’t been too many months since Jenny died, so Derek and Addison would have dragged him here if he didn’t come on his own. “Hot dogs are…bearable.” Mark comes down the concrete steps to stand next to Addison. “Derek could have just given us all that damn muesli cereal he likes so much. Or green juice. Anyway, Dinner Round Two will be served in a few minutes. I just came out here to see if you were okay. And to get away from your nieces and nephews for a few minutes. Cute kids, but loud.”  
  
“I…I never fit in when it comes to this kind of stuff.” Addison briefly glances at him, her expression full of weariness. When she looks back in the direction of tree-lined Central Park, just down the street and past the crosswalk, she can no longer pick out individual leaves – everything is an overwhelming blur of yellow, orange, and green behind her teary eyes. On days like this, it is hard to know if the landscape is slowly disappearing, or if she is. “And nothing I ever do is good enough for Carolyn – but Derek doesn’t see that, or just chooses not to,” she shares. “I’m probably not even good enough for _him_ either, most days.”  
  
“That’s not true, Red.”  
  
“I guess not. It’s just that…my husband gave me twenty-four hours’ notice to make a Thanksgiving dinner for thirty-four people. I’ve never cooked a turkey before. And I don’t really know how to _do_ Thanksgiving. Louise, Gabriela, a few other cooks we had along the way – when I was growing up, they brought the food in, we ate, and that was that. It took me a long time to realize functional families have, like, _traditions_. Derek comes from one of those families, you know? So with the Shepherds, there are Turkey Trots and parades and football and happy, smiling faces. There’s this whole…wishbone thing with the kids. And once everyone is seated for a ridiculously early dinner, they go around and say what they’re thankful for. There’s just…family everywhere. Family who knows what they’re doing to the point that it’s autopilot.” Addison drags her knuckles under her lower eyelids, smudging away lingering tears. “Christmas is easier for me. I decorate. I give people gifts. And even if I didn’t know exactly what to do, I feel like it would be easy enough to fake.” She inhales shakily. At least the tears falling this afternoon have been somewhat graceful, manageable. “You can go back in if you want, Mark,” she adds quietly. “I’ll be okay. I just need to stand out here for a few more minutes until my skin feels thicker.”  
  
“Do you want my jacket?” Mark asks. Not that his leather jacket is going to help much, but it is cold out, and Addison was clearly too upset to grab something off the coat rack when she walked out of the brownstone. She shakes her head at the offer though. “No? Okay. What about…um, a hug or something?” Mark knows from experience if the situation were reversed, Addison would assure him that she wasn’t _looking_ if he was emotional, but she would still find a way to sneak a hug in. Nothing about feelings – either displaying his own or watching someone else put theirs on display – is particularly easy for Mark. He typically feels a heaviness pulse in his stomach whenever he sees someone crying, or whenever someone is suffering through no fault of their own or due to pain they didn’t sign up for. It’s not as difficult with Addison though, probably because he’s known her for so long, and because it’s not entirely alarming; she can be sensitive sometimes, sure, but she’s also fiercely resilient and kind of a badass.  
  
Addison shakes her head again. “No, because if someone looks outside, they’ll be able to tell I’m upset. At least with my back turned, they can’t see me crying or see that I’m spiraling enough to need a hug. I mean, granted, if Mom – Carolyn – if she looks out here she’ll probably just think, ‘Oh, there’s my unlikable, poison-giving daughter-in-law, sulking again.’”  
  
_Mom_. Carolyn has never encouraged Addison to call her this, but she’s also never told her _not_ to. Addison only started doing it because of Kathleen, Nancy, and Liz’s husbands. She remembers asking John a few years ago if Carolyn ever expressly told him to call her “Mom.” John – who started dating Nancy around the time Addison started dating Derek – said he honestly couldn’t remember, but now it’s mostly habit, even though it’s still a little weird since he already has a mom known as Mom. It’s not a habit for Addison, but she has always gotten the sense Carolyn thinks she is snobbish and cold, so maybe calling her “Mom” once in a while will soften her motherly heart towards her only daughter-in-law? And unlike John, it’s not like Addison is in danger of overusing the word or feeling awkward about taking it away from someone else; Bizzy has never been “Mom.” Or _a_ mom, for that matter, sometimes.  
  
Mark bumps his shoulder against hers. “You just have to get through today…and then all these crazies will be out of your house and it’ll get better. And Christmas is coming. That’s like yours and Derek’s season.”  
  
Addison glances at him, intrigued. “Our season?”  
  
“Yeah, you both get so into it. It’s disgusting, honestly. But a cute, tolerable disgusting, I guess,” he says, and Addison beams. _Our season_. She is going to remember that. “And hey,” Mark adds while returning her look of cheerfulness. “If you can go back in there and get through today, I promise I’ll let you set up a tree in my apartment this year.”  
  
She holds him to this.  
  
A few days after Hot Dog Thanksgiving, Mark opens the door to his apartment after his doorman called up to let him know “Addison is here to see you, and she has a large box.” Mark thought he’d have more time before all this holly-jolly shit was going to start, but evidently not.  
  
“I’m glad the aforementioned box wasn’t an innuendo on Tom’s part.” Mark holds out his hands to accept the rectangular box Addison is cradling awkwardly between her arms along with two heavy-looking, bulky plastic bags hanging off her wrist. Mark can only imagine how she politely shooed away his doorman, who would have offered to carry everything. There’s Addison’s control-freak tendencies, for one. And probably just her desire to be the one holding all the Christmas-related things when she gets to the twenty-second floor. Yes, Mark knows she can be selfish and shallow at times ( _pot meet kettle_ , Derek would inform him), but Addison really _is_ one of those people who likes giving gifts more than receiving them.  
  
“Shut up,” Addison replies, smirking with amusement. She walks ahead of Mark to a corner of his living room that she already knows will be the perfect spot. “It’s just a four-footer. I figured you wouldn’t want the hassle of a real one…and in the bags are a few ornaments to get you started. I’ll bring some more by later, and I also need to get you a tree skirt.” Her expression turns sheepish. “Thank you for indulging me. And I know it’s early, but I like to have mine and Derek’s tree up by December first. That way I get to enjoy it for a whole month.”  
  
“And how are things with Mr. Wonderful?”  
  
“Good.” Addison smiles at him, part of her reflection catching in one of the glass ornaments she has cupped between her hands. “We, um, made up that night, once everyone left.”  
  
Mark chuckles. “Good for you crazy kids. Derek _is_ alive though, right? You’re not just lying to me about the make-up sex so you’ll have an alibi when the police eventually discover his wife poisoned him?” He studies her closely, waiting for her reaction. “Sorry. Too soon, Red…?”   
  
“Let’s give it a few more weeks.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“We’ve been summoned,” Addison says at the beginning of the third week of November. Derek glances up with a perplexed smile, and then scratches at his lower lip. “Well, _I_ _’ve_ been summoned,” she continues, “but it would be nice to have you around for said summoning.” Addison then fills Derek in on the details. She spoke with her mother this afternoon. Well, not really. Leah called. She’s Bizzy’s social secretary, but mostly she’s just known as “the new Susan.” And Addison’s presence has been requested on Friday and Saturday. Archer has some sort of book promotion thing in Bridgeport and it’s apparently “a good look” to have the whole family present.   
  
“…so we have Thanksgiving at your mom’s, spend the night as planned, and then head to Connecticut with fake smiles on our faces?”  
  
“You know…” Derek shows her a teasing grin. “The Archer thing has never been a selling point for me when it comes to being summoned. Don’t you know that by now?”  
  
“I definitely do, but...can I count you in?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
It wasn’t uncomfortable or nerve-wracking for Addison when she arrived back home from the Hamptons a few weeks ago, even though she believed it would be both of those things. But no. It had been oddly…thrilling to face her husband, actually. Derek gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek when she came through the door with her suitcase. _I fucked your best friend_ , Addison thought as she slipped out of the hug, and although she would never tell Derek that – _obviously_ she would never tell him that – she felt a perverse sense of glee at the _idea_ of telling him. And at the idea of carrying a secret like this. _And he fingered me and went down on me too, and I came really hard both times_ , she added in her head, which was a strange twist given that while Addison certainly isn’t a prude, she usually isn’t so direct and, well, _coarse_ when it comes to naming certain acts. _And it was good. Really good_.  
  
This time of year is good for Addison and Derek though. It’s almost their season, and Derek’s enthusiasm for Christmas just about matches hers most of the time. His mood lifts when the holiday season rolls around. He told Addison in their first year of marriage about a line his favorite author once wrote: _snow is never more beautiful than in the city_. And then he told Addison that _she_ looked beautiful in the snow, too.  
  
“We should probably start thinking about Christmas stuff,” Derek says, and Addison feels a flush of encouragement that they are so clearly on the same wavelength at the moment. The same one for nearly a week now, actually. “Gifts and all that,” he continues, fingering at the silky tie on her wrap top. “Maybe a lambswool blanket or new sewing kit for my mom. And I’m sure the kids would be happiest with gift cards. My sisters too, probably. And for your parents and your saintly brother…well, we’ll just do our best.”  
  
“Seems like you’re a bit more focused on unwrapping _me_ at the moment.”   
  
“Yeah. So I should probably stop talking about family members. Especially since I need to concentrate. Getting you out of your clothes is a bit like a puzzle when you wear tops like this.” _Tops_. Not _shirts_ , or at least not always. _Derek has learned_ , Addison knows. It’s just one of those funny things where the longer you’re with someone, the more you adapt to their ways. Derek can name at least ten fashion designers and Addison can easily list the current NFC rankings. You grow with the person beside you, and when you love them enough, your love (or at least acceptance) for the things that are important to them grows, too.  
  
Addison briefly presses her lips to his neck, excited about the direction this evening is going in. “I suspect you’re up for the challenge,” she says, tone flirty.  
  
“Very much so. And it’s a job I take seriously.”  
  
Addison has already closed her eyes in anticipation of being kissed, and Derek snorts a little at her for doing this, but then he touches his mouth to hers and he’s not laughing anymore. She sighs happily as they pull apart so they can make their way to their bedroom. Days like this – _weeks_ like this – make her forget the problems. She forgets the absence, the indifference, the unwillingness or just general laziness when it comes to stepping away from all the things they are good at (surgical skills, mostly) to devote some attention to some of the things they are struggling with (this long-term rough patch in their marriage, mostly). None of those things are in the forefront of Addison’s brain as they fall into bed together. Derek is happy today. So that means she is happy, too. That’s how this works, right? Addison isn’t much of a Hemingway fan, but since Derek is, some of the quotes have bled into her – the growing and adapting thing. A particular line Derek said is attributed to his favorite author tugs at Addison as she follows her husband up the stairs: _Stop chasing the wrong one. The right one won’t run._  
  
She exchanges a long, lazy kiss with Derek when she rolls off him later that night. He pulls her back against him almost instantly – he is in the mood to cuddle, apparently – and he is asleep within minutes. It takes Addison much, much longer to fall asleep, even with Derek’s warm weight against her and one of his arms drooped lazily over her waist, which reminds her a lot of their early days, when they would just about _run_ home in order to have sex and then drift off to sleep still vined around one another.   
  
Tonight was good. Of course it was good. It’s Derek. It’s _Addison and Derek_. But it wasn’t _really good_. Addison knows what that’s like now, because she’s had it. Sweat from their lovemaking is still beading beneath them on the teardrop-shaped swirls of their paisley sheet set.   
  
Tears on tears, kind of. And then more wetness follows when a rush of guilt bends through Addison and moisture crowds in her eyes.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
_You are almost thirty-five years old_ , Addison chides herself as she calls her best friend a few hours after the incident at the hospital with Bizzy and Susan. Her cheek is no longer pulsating from the slap, but she swears it is, anyway. _How can you possibly be so scared of your mother, and sort of hate her, and yet still be so damn desperate for her love and approval?_  
  
“Nai, it was awful.” Addison needs to talk about this without sparing any details, but she is also looking forward to getting through this portion of the conversation so they can move on to happier topics…hopefully.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Addie. I can’t believe Bizzy would – wait. Sam…hey, Sam? Hang on, Addie – sorry, just give me a few seconds,” Naomi says, and Addison can still hear her friend a little in the background. She uses this time to pour herself a glass of wine (she needs at least two after the day she’s had) while catching most of Naomi’s separate conversation. “Sam, what’s the name of that oncologist at St. Ambrose who is usually willing to take on cases that don’t have a good prognosis? He did hot chemo on one of our patients once.”  
  
“Um…Rodriguez. Eric Rodriguez.”  
  
“That name sounds familiar,” Addison says when Naomi redirects her attention to Addison and tells her a bit about Doctor Rodriguez. “Thank you for thinking about him for this. Would you be able to connect me with him? If he’s open to it, I can send him the scans and get his opinion. I know it’s desperation talking at this point, but it’s Bizzy. It’s Bizzy, you know?”  
  
Doctor Rodriguez will either say there are options, or there are no options – Addison is not sure which scenario scares her more. She is afraid of this. And of so many other things.   
  
Fear keeps following her as the years stumble on, hanging over her like a cloud. Addison remains afraid of disappointing her parents. Of disappointing anyone, really. She is afraid of failing. She is afraid of ending a marriage she is no longer happy in. She is afraid of anything concerning her marriage, honestly, which also includes _staying_ in her marriage. She is afraid that her window for having biological children is coming to a close. She is afraid of ending up alone, and much like options versus no options, whether she stays or she goes – that sense of aloneness just seems fused to her. The fear doesn’t go away.  
  
And Addison discovers that as the past becomes the present, and as fall marches in to the silent snow of winter, she is afraid of all the things she can talk herself into in the interest of feeling good, of all the things that aid and abet the flood of lust. She becomes afraid of the depth of her feelings, of every emotion she starts to feel when she’s with her husband’s best friend.   
  
And fear just breeds chaos.   
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison smiles as she watches a blue jay delicately hop around the rim of a bird bath in Carolyn Shepherd’s backyard. The bird navigates over a cluster of icy edges – the result of last night’s unexpected dusting of snow and this morning’s pervasive chill – to access the available water lingering in the basin. It’s a heated birdbath. It had been Addison’s idea to get this for Carolyn a few years ago, and Carolyn, who really likes birds, absolutely loved it. It was one of those moments where Addison wondered if her paranoia that her mother-in-law disliked her was in fact way off base.   
  
_It’s Thanksgiving, you know_ , she says in her head to the jay. _Don’t linger. It’s not the best day for your fellow birds._  
  
“Haven’t seen you around much lately.”  
  
Addison tenses at the sound of Mark’s rumbling voice. She and Derek weren’t sure if he would be making an appearance. For the past few years Mark has usually cobbled together all the willpower he can and will spend Thanksgiving with his dad, but since the Shepherd and Sloan childhood houses aren’t that far from one another, sometimes Mark will stop by to say hello to Carolyn and the Shepherd girls. But it’s early evening now – Addison has come out to the back porch to call her brother to check in about tomorrow – so she figured she was in the clear. She hasn’t seen Mark much since that weekend in the Hamptons. She also hasn’t attempted to contact him and hasn’t responded to a handful of texts he’s sent her (they have been the casual, observational types of messages that don’t really necessitate a response, but still). There have been a few sightings here and there at the hospital, but that’s it. Addison isn’t avoiding him, but she certainly isn’t going out of her way to look for him, either.  
  
She thought it might be easier. But it’s not. It’s really, really not.   
  
“I’ve been busy,” she says, keeping her voice neutral as Mark comes to stand next to her. His knuckles curl around the deck rail.   
  
“Busy in general or busy avoiding me?”  
  
Addison sighs. “Both. I know…I know I said we need to just do the business-as-usual thing, but it’s probably better if we spend some time apart.”  
  
“And why’s that?”  
  
“Mark, come on.” She frowns through a swell of discomfort. “Don’t make me answer that.”  
  
He breathes out slowly, and it’s cold enough that an iridescent cloud of air lifts away from them both. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Mark admits quietly. Addison is momentarily rendered speechless by these words, and how he can make them seem so gentle and gruff at the same time. She clenches her jaw and swallows nervously.   
  
“You need to though.”  
  
“Don’t you think about me? Or that weekend...?”  
  
“No.” Addison forces herself to look at him. Mark looks significantly taller than her right now, because while it’s not really her style, Addison is wearing flat, shearling-lined boots today in an attempt to “dress down” a little. Carolyn has made remarks before about Addison’s designer heels. “I don’t think about you. At all.” She presses her lips together, expecting this insolent comment to make Mark stiffen, but if it bothers him, he doesn’t show any hurt. Instead, his mouth twists into a smirk.   
  
“You’re a bad liar, Red. The crappy poker face for starters, and the thing with your thighs.”  
  
“What thing with my thighs? Also, you shouldn’t be _looking_ at my thighs.”  
  
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. When you’re feeling aroused, you press your legs together. And...” Mark leans in closer. Not close enough that it could be viewed as inappropriate, but still unacceptable in Addison’s opinion. “And when I lower my voice like this – just like this, Addison – your eyes dilate and you start to get -”  
  
“ _Stop it_ ,” she hisses. “I mean it, Mark. Cut it out.”  
  
“Everything okay?”   
  
It’s the second time today a person has stepped outside and announced their presence without Addison hearing the sliding door get nudged open. And it’s the second time she’s become rigid at the person’s words.   
  
“Yes. Everything’s okay, Amy.” Addison can’t quite figure out the initial look on her youngest sister-in-law’s face, but Amy’s features quickly readjust to form a friendly grin. “Mark and I were just talking about a mutual patient and we have differing opinions on the appropriate course of treatment...”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Mark almost grimaces when he spots Addison swiftly walking towards him, heels clicking mercilessly against the wooden floor in the church foyer. He isn’t sure if a person can actually _look_ bossy, but Addison definitely manages it, especially today. _Can I not even take a piss in peace anymore?_ he plans to ask. Mark assumed that as a guest at this wedding, he would have a fairly easy time of it, but apparently being close to the bride but not close enough to be in the wedding party means he is obligated to help with last-minute things. Addison is in a similar position, but because she is wearing heels, dainty earrings, and a nice dress with flowy sleeves (Mark can’t just say _because she’s a girl_ , since he knows Addison would be offended and share this offense with all of womankind), it means if anything in the reception hall next to the church needs to be lifted and moved, it’s on him.  
  
“I need you to go somewhere with me,” Addison says when she reaches him.   
  
“Are we pulling the getaway car around? You know, statistically speaking, it would make sense that at least _one_ Shepherd sister would get cold feet, but Nancy wouldn’t have been my guess.”  
  
Addison shakes her head. And then she is tugging on his wrist and they are heading out to the church parking lot, because of course they are. It’s not like Mark actually had a choice.  
  
“Nancy is fine,” Addison tells him. “But you and I are not going to see her be fine and walk down the aisle, because we need to go to Cortland.”  
  
“Ugh. That shithole? Pass.” It’s automatic, but then Mark grows serious, because she wouldn’t have said any of this if it _wasn’t_ serious. It feels much more serious than moving a few rental chairs and tables around, at least. “Why?”  
  
“Because one Amelia Frances Shepherd is currently in a cell at the county jail there. I just found out from Derek and…and understandably Nancy isn’t available to go get her, the rest of the sisters are in the bridal party, my husband is one of John’s groomsmen, and Carolyn isn’t going to miss her daughter’s wedding for this. Plus, you know how Derek and the non-Amy women of his family can be…they’d let her sit there forever and wouldn’t have an ounce of sympathy for her situation. Not that I don’t feel the temptation…Amy was driving drunk. Way over the legal limit, apparently. Her boyfriend was in the car with her, too. She’s lucky she didn’t kill him or anyone else. Or herself, for that matter. And it’s also going to be messy legally since she’s only eighteen. I don’t even know if bailing her out is an option right now – I’m not sure how any of this works, so I’d feel better if someone came with me. Can you drive while I call Savvy? She’s an attorney, so hopefully she can give me a little guidance on how to navigate this.”  
  
“Hurricane Amelia is gonna run out of lives at some point.” Mark feels bad for stating this, but he isn’t wrong. Amy seems to be going down a bad path. Mark will not be there in a few months’ time when Derek will breathe the life back into his junkie (or then-junkie?) little sister, but Mark can imagine because there were a few instances with his mother that were probably just steps away from being fatal. He tries not to be judgmental, because although he personally might not abuse pills or be reckless enough to drive completely loaded, he is no stranger to other forms of self-destruction. And Mark also understands the complexity behind addiction. He has to, as a doctor, as a man of science. It just…it hits harder when it’s personal. Jenny has been mostly functional in recent years and not as psychologically-dependent on Ativan anymore, so at least there’s that. But it’s not like Mark has forgotten his childhood.  
  
Addison lets go of his wrist just now. For a split second, she looks like she might cry over Mark’s running-out-of-lives observation. “I’m not going to let that happen,” she states.  
  
“I know. It’ll be okay. We’ll get Amy straightened out. And, on a different note…” Mark graces her with a warm smile when they reach his car and get in. “Since it’s a wedding, I figured there was a chance I’d end up leaving with a woman, but I didn’t think it would be _you_ , Red.”  
  
“Just drive, please.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
December feels lonely at times, especially the closer it gets to Christmas. The city is covered in sparkly decorations and everyone just seems giddy and _alive_ , but Mark can’t overlook the simple truths of nature: it gets dark so early; branches have been torn from faded wood; fog hovers somberly over the Manhattan skyline most mornings; and it’s cold enough that it burns.   
  
He is alone in this quiet, withered-white landscape. He plugs the cord into one of his outlets, and watches as string lights glow on the tree Addison got him several years ago. He uses the same ornaments she gave him, too. Silver balls. Blue balls (he’s feeling a little too melancholy tonight to even make the joke). Some Yankee ornaments. And a picture of Mark and Derek as little kids that Addison tucked inside a picture frame ornament – she always hangs a matching one on whatever Balsam fir she and Derek drag into their home.  
  
Mark experiences a funny lurch in his chest when he gets a text from Addison, and the uncomfortable sensation only strengthens as he reads her words.   
  
_Please don’t reply and please delete this after reading. I’m not alone right now._  
  
_Of course I still think about you and of course I still think about that weekend. Sometimes it’s the only thing I think about. But I’m married and I love my husband, Mark. What happened between us can’t happen again. I thought I could put it behind me and never look back, but it hasn’t been that simple and obviously I was an idiot to think I could act like nothing happened. I’m sorry for any pain and hurt this has caused you. I’m trying to move past this though, and I need you to do the same. I need you to try. Please try._  
  
And over on the other side of Central Park, Addison finds herself a little sad that, even though it’s what she asked for, it’s what she thought she wanted, Mark doesn’t respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> (C H R I S T this is an entire page of notes)
> 
> Addison describes Christmas as hers and Derek’s “season” in Grey’s 2x12, and mentions getting Carolyn a lambswool blanket for Christmas. Also, Addison did refer to Carolyn as “Mom” at one point (in the episode where Nancy came to Seattle), which feels, you know, a little weird given that eventually it’s mentioned that Carolyn hates/hated Addison??? (Even before the affair with Mark, she hated her, apparently)
> 
> Amelia truly is the Ageless Wonder on Grey’s, so I am not giving much concern to ages and timelines and possible discrepancies here. Past Private Practice/Grey’s information though (and I’m assuming you’ll take my word for it if I don’t always reference specific episodes, and also hello if you’re still reading this rambling mess) includes the following: Amelia (then known as Amy) overdosed as a teenager and was technically dead for two or three minutes before Derek revived her; she was wild enough during her teen years that she earned the nickname “Hurricane Amelia”; she for real missed Nancy’s wedding because she was in jail (no reference to what specifically she did, but I can’t imagine it was too egregious); and she spent most of her twenties holed up in a library studying, and was sober for quite a long time before she slipped up on Private Practice.
> 
> Smaller tidbits: the twenty-second floor was the floor at The Archfield that Addison’s hotel room was on, and Mark requested a room on this floor at the end of Grey’s 3x03 (I like to imagine their rooms were fairly close to one another ;)). They lived at this hotel for IDK, either a few months or 207 years. This is not an important detail that actually warrants a mention in Atlas, but it makes me happy to throw in “subtle” nods here and there. Same with the Eric Rodriguez bit (a character – a very flirty character – essential to assisting Addison when she performs surgery on Susan in Private Practice). I’m not planning on doing anything with him, but I just threw that part in since it somewhat fit. The “I don’t think about you” line is a nod to Grey’s 3x14. You know the episode. You know the scene. And you know the scene near the end of that episode. I know you know it. And, muesli cereal – Derek eats this every day for breakfast. It’s mentioned in Grey’s season 1 when he’s at Meredith’s house/The Intern Hostel one morning. And we know from too many references to count on Private Practice that Addison likes green juice (why, I don’t know). Oh, and the paisleys! Mark slept with Addison on the flannel sheets, which are Derek’s favorite (Grey’s S2), but Addison insisted his favorite are the Italian sheets with the paisleys. He then (understandably) asked her to stop talking about the damn sheets.
> 
> Re: Savvy, Addison’s friend (Grey’s, 2x08). She won’t really be an instrumental character in this, and I’m not planning on doing anything health or surgical-related with her (e.g.: BRCA gene and family history of ovarian cancer). I am happy with how I handled that storyline in MTGOF Redux, so creatively, I’m going in a different direction this time.
> 
> Derek’s favorite book is The Sun Also Rises (Hemingway). Mentioned in S1 Grey’s.
> 
> I’ve quoted the hot dog scene before, but it IS an excellent scene in the first Grey’s/Private Practice crossover (PP, 2x16), so I guess I’m doing it again. Addison talking (arguing) with Derek about the infamous hot dog Thanksgiving: “Your mother breaks her wrist, so the day before Thanksgiving, you invite 34 people over to our house, without asking me, knowing I’ve never cooked a turkey in my life. Your sister [Nancy] gets salmonella, and your mother accuses me of trying to kill everyone. And then you, ha-ha, make hot dogs, and you’re the hero…you make some statement and I do all the work. No matter how it turns out, you’re the hero, I’m incompetent.” IDK how Addison did not sleep with Mark IMMEDIATELY after Derek pulled this crap on her, but hey, that’s neither here nor there.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. :)


	10. Distant Constellation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is pulled from the song “Ten-Twenty-Ten” by Generationals.
> 
> Apologies, this is kind of a long one – I wish I knew how to do short chapters, but it never seems to work out for me. I’m quite happy with this one though. Things will get a little steamier again next chapter, and then there will be plenty of angst and dramzzzz in the several that follow (probably; I’m shit at outlining).

**Chapter 10. Distant Constellation** **  
  
**

Addison releases a weary sigh. It feels best to keep her back to the bathroom counter while she waits. She is thirty-five years old today, and what a birthday this would be if she finds out she is pregnant. So here she is, the heels of her hands steeled against cold marble, waiting to see whether lines appear in the window of the test she has just taken. She can hear Derek washing the dishes downstairs, a task he is really only doing to keep busy while Addison waits for the test to finish processing.

She thinks for a moment of herself as a willowy, solemn six-year-old who loved school – especially reading and math – and playing with the baby doll Cosy got her. She has a vague recollection of the Captain telling her around this age that a plus sign is Latin for _more_.

And that’s what this would be too, right? _More, more, more._ The past few weeks have been brutal. The most difficult, worst weeks of Addison’s life.

She’s not ready, and now she finds herself waiting for the potential plus sign. Can she really bear one more cross right now?  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

“And…that’s it for me.” Derek sets his work cell aside, which makes Addison smile. She suspects Derek will check again later for an update on this particular patient though, never mind that another attending has it under control and he’s off for the entire week starting now (no judgment, not really; Addison will be just as guilty of checking up on patients when her vacation starts). Derek is heading to Connecticut to be with his family this afternoon, and Addison will be joining him in a few days’ time (Nancy is hosting Christmas this year).

“It’s a strange field, sometimes,” Derek muses, reaching for his personal cell (the one Addison is more interested in right now) and speaking more to himself than his wife. “You know – the brain and spine are so unforgiving, and you can’t always cure things…I’m just enhancing this person’s function in the face of a lot of limitations. Anyway…oh, here we go – here’s a new one.” He brings his phone closer. “Not sure what Liz’s problem is, taking forever to send us pictures. How selfish of her, using this time to bond with her babies and rest and recover.” Derek smirks teasingly as he hands the phone to Addison so she can see the most recent photo of the twins. “Doesn’t she know to give the people what they want?”

Addison beams as she takes in the twins’ pursed lips, skinny legs, and color-coordinated beanies pulled low enough to nearly hide their overcast-looking eyes. Well, just one set of eyes in this one. Baby Brother is sleeping in the photo. “God, they’re perfect,” she says, feeling warmth and longing balloon over her heart. “Did Liz say if they decided -”

“Carson and Stella.”

“Aww. So sweet,” she gives Derek his phone back. “And Liz said -”

“Yep, she’s doing well,” Derek finishes, following her line of questioning perfectly in the way that couples do. “I’m sure she’ll give you a play-by-play in a few days that I’ll cover my ears for. Oh, and I know Nancy told us she’s pregnant again, but make sure not to bring it up. She hasn’t told Liz yet. She wants to give it another week or so…she’s worried she might steal Lizzie’s newborn thunder if she announces it now.”

This makes Addison laugh. “Kathleen would have initiated the thunder-stealing immediately.” Addison does not say it with any disapproval, because although she is closer to Nancy and Amy, she really does love Kathleen (and Liz). It’s just sort of who Kathleen is.

Derek nods in agreement. “Yeah, she would have,” he says. “Well, Kate will get another chance eventually. Maybe it can be our thunder she gets to steal.”

“Definitely. When we start trying, she or one of your other baby-busy sisters will get to make it all about them.” Addison studies Derek closely while speaking, trying to pick out what is wrong. Normally, there’s hope in his eyes when he talks about kids – plural. Addison thinks she’d be okay with just one kid, two tops, but Derek wants two or three – maybe more than that, horrifyingly. There’s normally _hope_ though, or even sadness, sometimes, because if Derek had it his way, they would have started trying a few years ago, and if he could have willed that former test of Addison’s positive, then it would have been positive. Today he just looks angry. At _her_ , not at the situation. The difference feels palpable. “I’m still set on starting to try in the spring,” she adds, keeping her tone even. “I meant it, Derek, when we talked about it last. And I mean it now, too. If it’s the time crunch you’re worried about…I promise you, there’s still time. And like we’ve said before: there’s other options, too.”

They’ve talked about “other options” before, in the event they have trouble conceiving. Private adoption, maybe foster-to-adopt. Many children need homes, after all. And like her, Derek isn’t opposed to adoption.

Her husband’s voice is cold when he answers, however. “I guess so.”

Addison worriedly sinks her teeth into her lower lip. It looks and seems far too beautiful today to be having this conversation. It’s almost Christmas, and all reports indicate it will be a white one. The decorations on their tree are glittering and winking back at them like stars. The candle she blew out before they went to sleep last night has continued to leave a comforting scent of pomegranate and pine lingering throughout the first floor of their home. And right now, on another snow-struck day, veins of dappled sunlight are spreading through their ice-smeared windows. It really is too beautiful for this.

“You’re mad at me,” Addison acknowledges. “Just say it, whatever it is. I’d like to talk about it. Hell, I’m even okay with fighting about it, if that’s what you need. It’s better than _not_ fighting, because we’ve kind of hit the point where we don’t even bother to fight anymore. And I know it’s strange, but fighting has always been healthy for us, you know?”

“I’m just…tired of waiting. I’m tired of time.”

“It’ll go fast. We can always work on ourselves and where we are as a couple in the meantime. It’s probably in our best interest to do that before we have a kid, anyway. Make sure we’re on the same page and all that.” Addison takes a seat at the kitchen table. “You’re not happy, Derek, and I don’t think it’s just the kid thing. There have been little glimmers of happiness lately because it’s our season, but overall, you’re not happy. And I don’t want to bring a child into the world – or into our lives – if this is where things currently stand between us.”

“So much for the spring deadline then.”

“Derek -”

“And that’s rich of _you_ to be talking about happiness.”

“Fine,” Addison replies in a snappish tone. She’ll give him that. “I suppose that’s true. I’m not happy. I’m lonely and I miss you.”

“I’m right here, Addie.”

“You know what I mean. Honey, I want to have a baby with you, I do – but not like _this_. Not when we’ve basically stopped spending time together and you blow off plans with me and we hardly ever have sex, which as you know, is sort of the basic requirement for having a baby together. It’s been, like, two years or maybe even a little more than that since we’ve truly been _okay_. That’s what I think, at least. So maybe we can talk about it. Or figure out a time to talk about it?”

Derek glowers at her remarks. “You know, maybe it’s better if we just run out the clock and don’t have a kid the ‘typical’ way,” he snaps. “Or any way at all, really, if you’re this unhappy, Addison. It might not be worth how inevitably difficult it would be. I mean, with your genes…and whatever therapy our kid is going to need as a result of you being raised by WASP-y wolves…” Derek trails off then, because to his credit, he seems to realize he crossed a line.

Addison stands up quickly enough that the chair she was in almost falls back into the wall. The problem is that Derek went into this knowing he was going to cross the line. And he did it anyway. It took Addison years to put a name to it, but the thing is – and it’s a lot harder to overlook these days – there are always _conditions_ and _exceptions_ with Derek. When it comes to his love, to his support, to his patience. And right now, he’s not fighting to reach a resolution, as was the case in some of the more memorable squabbles they had in their early thirties – now, he’s fighting to wound. And Addison might be sensitive sometimes, yes, but very rarely is she threatened and it’s not in her nature to back down from a fight.

“I would be a good mother,” she says fiercely. “I _will_ be a good mother. And as far as the woman who raised me, what you’re specifically talking about…she was hurting, Derek. Bizzy had just lost her best friend – someone she cared about deeply. I know there’s a lot of things to judge my mother for, and I’m usually the first to do so, but not this. What happened doesn’t make her weak or indicate any character deficiencies. She was out of her mind with distress and she wasn’t thinking. She was broken from grief. And even if…” Addison swallows heavily. She is not aware of where things currently stand, if the person Bizzy talked to has offered a diagnosis, or hell, if Bizzy is even still talking to someone or taking anything. “Even if genetics dictate that a child from me is more likely to share in some of Bizzy’s more recent struggles, or that I’m somehow also headed for a fall like Holden Caulfield…the fact that you would throw this in my face right now is unspeakably cruel.” 

The brain and spine are unforgiving.

And as it turns out, so is her husband.  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

Bizzy is not a person who takes _no_ for an answer. It’s one of the few things Addison probably did get from her mother, even though there are times that because of her profession, she is capable of accepting defeat (if only grudgingly). And this is one of those times, with a surgery that pretty much only happened because she refused to be, as Bizzy accused her of being a week earlier, _a passive spectator_.

Addison can feel the pressure and resistance building in her throat because even though the writing was on the wall after reviewing the initial scans and especially during the scope, _no, no, no,_ it shouldn’t end like this. She thinks of what she already knew before she cobbled together a plan after consulting with Eric Rodriguez and a few other colleagues. The cancer has attached itself to major vessels. It’s in the liver. There are lesions on both ovaries, a five-centimeter mass on the left, a seven-centimeter one on the right. There is evidence of lymphatic involvement. And the use of a surgical system machine is generally not used in cases like this. But still. _No, no, no._

Addison looks over at Doctor Khatri, the oncologist assisting her, who didn’t even get to get too far into his portion of the surgery when their patient flatlined. Doctor Khatri’s eyes scan over the vital signs monitor. He’ll wait for Addison.

She has to call it.

Susan’s heart stopped, and Addison stepped back, because she is doing what she is supposed to do. _DNR order_. She took an oath, after all. And life – the quality of life – means something different to everyone. The quality of death, too. But it does occur to Addison that at least in this moment, Bizzy’s accusation rings true. Addison is a passive spectator.

This was her mother’s best friend on the operating table. This was someone her mother loved and apparently held hands with. And now Addison has to go tell Bizzy that Susan is dead.  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

The ring of Mark’s desk phone interrupts some post-op notes he is finishing up, and though he would normally be irritated for almost losing a thought mid-sentence, he knows what time it is, and he grins when he sees the call is coming from reception.

“Hey there,” he says when he picks up the receiver.

“Hi, Doctor Sloan,” his receptionist chirps back. Lynette. A saint among saints. She was his first clerical hire and one day (hopefully in the far, far-off future) when she quits or retires (her husband makes good money, so she doesn’t really need the job), Mark will be devastated; he adores her. She’s like a cross between a mother – a good mother – and a fun-loving aunt who teases him and tolerates his life choices and always gets his sandwich order right. She’s in her late fifties – not that she looks like it, not with the subtle but perfect work Mark has done on her. Derek and Addison have joked that Lynette is Mark’s most successful (though non-sexual) relationship with a female to date. There’s some truth to that, Mark figures. And sure, he knows he probably doesn’t have any moral high ground to stand on at the moment, but there are _plenty_ of things he is decidedly _not_ an idiot about, and how to run his practice (which includes not hiring staff he has an active interest in sleeping with) is one of them.

“You have something for me?”

“Yep. Delivery guy just left. I have your sandwich. It came with a giant pickle, too...oh will you stop laughing, you’re such a _child_ , Mark. And, um, also – I have Addison here. I asked her to take a seat…” she pauses so Mark understands that she can handle this with some level of discretion. Lynette knows. It’s how they _bond_ , he supposes. And she doesn’t judge him. Or, okay, maybe she does, but she’s nice to Mark and hasn’t openly berated him for his decision to sleep with his best friend’s wife two months ago. “So I can always tell her -”

“It’s okay. I’m available. You can send Addison back, and if you could put the sandwich in the fridge, that would be great. I’ll eat later. Thanks, Lynette. Tell her to just come in.” Addison has been here enough times that she knows her way around.

“Make good choices, Doctor Sloan.”

“I always do, Lynnie,” he says, and hears her cluck her tongue and grumble something that sounds a lot like _no you don’t_ as she hangs up.

And then a minute later there’s the requisite knock, and Addison is stepping into his office and closing the door behind her. She’s in a classic Addison winter outfit today. A black mid-length coat ( _God, there’s just something about this woman in black_ , he thinks), a sweater that probably has very specific dry-cleaning instructions, a tight pencil skirt, and a specific scarf she tends to default to on days as cold as this one.

Mark hasn’t seen her since Thanksgiving, which, awkwardness between them notwithstanding, is a truly remarkable feat. They may have different specialties, but they still usually run into each other once or twice a week at NYP. 

“Lunch break?” He asks.

“Lunch without the break, actually. I’m off this afternoon...” Addison offers a small nod of thanks when Mark gestures to the two upholstered chairs on the other side of his desk typically reserved for patients. “Too many hours recently,” she explains while taking a seat. “You know...I don’t think Lynette likes me very much.”

“To be fair, Lynette doesn’t really like anyone.”

“Does she know about us?”

“No,” Mark lies with ease. “So. Your lunch without the break included stopping by my office.” He’s not trying to be snarky, and he really doesn’t have an agenda. It’s just...complicated. And even when it’s messy, even when it’s ill-advised, the women he’s used to being with _aren’t_ complicated. He can figure them out, at least. Not this woman though.

“I was…” Addison twists at her hands in her lap. “Yeah,” she murmurs, starting over, eyes nervously darting to the side before she looks at him again. “I was hoping...the text I sent. Well. I was hoping you’d respond.”

“Addison, you told me _not_ to.”

“I know,” she acknowledges with a rueful look. “I guess I kind of did that ridiculous girl thing where I expected you to know what I was thinking and feeling without me saying it.”

Mark sighs. He feels his patience start to slip away. “Why are you here, Red?”

“Because you’re my friend and I miss you. And because...because I can’t…” she shakes her head. She can’t be at home right now. She just can’t. “I wasn’t ready to go home quite yet. Derek isn’t leaving for another hour or so. He’s heading to Connecticut this afternoon, and I’ll be joining him this weekend.” She brightens a little when unshared news occurs to her – not that Mark will care all that much. Addison wouldn’t say Mark actively _dis_ likes kids, but it’s certainly not a topic he’s all that interested in. “Lizzie had the twins yesterday.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “I remember Derek saying she was pregnant, but I didn’t realize it was twins. Hopefully…” he offers her an indolent smirk. “Hopefully Liz was aware though.”

“She was. You know...Liz has had some trauma in her life. Her father was murdered during her formative years. She was the one who called 911 when Derek was performing CPR on her baby sister. And yet, no one has ever once thought, ‘Everly, Isla, and the twins will definitely end up in therapy one day because of her.’”

“I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t screw up my kid,” she says, and Mark catches the tiniest hitch in her voice. “I’d make mistakes like any parent, but I would be loving and present. I would be a good mother.”

“Yeah, of course you would. Did, uh, Derek tell you that you wouldn’t be?”

“No. It was just...implied. Heavily implied. And he apologized immediately, but sometimes with Derek, ‘sorry’ is a Band-Aid on a wound that actually requires stitches.”

This is true, Mark knows. Derek can be pretty cutting with his words when he wants to be.

“He can be a dirty fighter sometimes,” Mark states with a certain degree of wariness while Addison unwinds her scarf and drapes it over the arm of her chair. He doesn’t really want to get into this. He’s tired – way too tired to do this, and he doesn’t want to be whatever it is that would mean to serve as the opposite of a placeholder. “Red...” he shakes his head. “I’m not going to kick you out of my office when you’re upset, but you can’t do this. You’re being selfish – and you know it’s bad when _I_ accuse someone of being selfish. I’m not trying to be mean, but you get that it’s not fair to vent or use me as your sounding board, right? I know we’re friends, but...we’re kind of _weird_ friends now. I’m not the person to talk about this stuff with, especially when it involves the other member of the trio – the member we don’t want to hurt.”

“I know,” she answers quietly. “You’re right. I just…I don’t want there to be weirdness. I also don’t want to erase that weekend; I just wish it didn’t have to change everything. And I know that’s not how things _work_ , but…” Addison hesitates and draws in a breath. “Has it gotten easier for you yet?”

“Not really,” he confesses. “You?”

“No. I can barely even look at you right now…because I really want to kiss you,” Addison admits. She notices that Mark doesn’t seem bothered by this statement. Or judgmental. “Could we…maybe do that?” She smiles hopefully, and it makes him wince. Because there it is again. Mark has always been a good time guy, a _just here_ guy, and normally that’s fine, that’s all he needs, but it seems a little _less_ fine with Addison. _She’s Derek’s girl_ , he has reminded himself more than once in the past few weeks. _Forbidden fruit. That’s why this is difficult – it’s something he has and you can’t have it. But you’re too flawed and stupid and reckless to turn her down._

Mark does try though. “I’m not going to comfort you with my mouth just because your marriage is in the shitter.”

“Yeah…you’re right. Sorry.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, Red. That was…rude and unkind.”

Addison smiles weakly. “And completely true.”

“Look, it’s not going to work the way you thought it would,” he says, trying to reason with her. “Or the way you want it to work. We can’t go back in time and un-kiss and un-sex each other. And now if you’re thinking we just kiss for a bit, that that’s enough to hold you over…it’s not. It won’t be.” Mark generally doesn’t get involved, at least intentionally, with other people’s girlfriends and wives, but he’s had some past encounters, yes, and he knows enough to know he’s correct with what he’s telling Addison. “We’ll end up screwing again.”

“You seem pretty convinced about that.”

“Because I know I’m right.”

“It wasn’t just…I really liked kissing you, you know. And I liked being with you, Mark. Yes, I was hurting, but even in retrospect, without being lonely and having some wine that evening and a storm and power outage serving as a dramatic backdrop, it wasn’t a Derek thing and it wasn’t a comfort thing. Or _just_ , I mean. It wasn’t _just_ those things. I wanted it. And that wanting…it hasn’t gone away. And the longer I sit here, the less I care about my marriage. I’m not trying to make more of that weekend than what it was, but we both really enjoyed each other, and I was happy and having fun and…you were there. You were there.”

“But it didn’t mean anything.” Mark says it carefully, as though testing the concept out.

“Right,” she says, answering to answer rather than truly thinking about his question and its potential implications. “And it’s just that…”

This response doesn’t surprise Mark. Addison is thoughtful, but she is also selfish at times. So is Derek. And Mark is too, of course – hell, everyone is sometimes – but he has always felt that their selfishness is one of the things that has strained their marriage. Too often they don’t think about anyone outside of themselves. Mark has felt that way for years, long before Derek and Addison started to have problems.

“…it’s just that I still want to kiss you. And have sex with you again. But…mostly right now I just want to kiss you,” she finishes.

It is quiet for a moment as they sit under a halo of artificial light. Addison is again struck with a feeling that has been hitting her more and more lately when it comes to opportunities, whether they are morally right or not: maybe she _is_ becoming a passive spectator in her life.

Mark interrupts her thoughts. “Come over here,” he says. He angles his chair away from his desk, making room for her if she chooses to get up and join him. It’s Addison’s choice. _Because that’s what so much of this is._ He’s a willing participant, but the concept of coming, going, walking away – she’s in control of that. And she chooses _yes_.

Addison walks around the black oak desk and situates herself sideways in Mark’s lap, long legs draped warmly over his thighs as she crosses her ankles near the floor. The static of her stockings catches against his pants. And her lips part as though to say something, but Mark doesn’t bother to find out what it is. Words don’t seem to be working for them, anyway. He presses his mouth to hers, and Addison responds immediately, cupping his face in her hands and lightly grazing his stubble with her fingertips. The kiss tastes of mutual longing and something else Mark can’t identify, but he knows it scares the hell out of him just as much as it excites him. He anchors his arms around her waist and she sighs contently with an _mmm_ against his lips when Mark kisses her more firmly. It’s getting heated now, and Mark really doesn’t want to stop, but he pulls back when Addison sighs again. He fights off a smile this time.

“Hey…” he brings a hand up to rest it against the side of her head. He wants to drag his fingers through Addison’s hair and twist some of the fiery locks around his fist, but she curled her hair today. It’s always stiffer and neater-looking when it’s hanging in spirals, so he resists the temptation to mess with it. He kisses her ear instead. “Try not to make noise, okay?”

Addison cranes her neck towards the door at this request, as though expecting to find Lynette and an audience. “Sorry,” she murmurs – she doesn’t look all that sorry though. Her cheeks are flushed with anticipation and a smile is creasing the corners of her mouth. God, he loves how damn _happy_ she looks.

“I should be making the request out of respect to there being other people at my practice, but…” Mark grins slowly, knowing his next words will arouse her as much as they momentarily embarrass her. “I mostly said it because these are the only pants I have here. And those sounds of yours tend to have an effect on me,” he says, and Addison ducks her head, giggling.

“I guess...” she smirks into his collarbone. “I’ll try not to move around too much either then.”

Mark nudges her cheek with his to get her to look at him. “That would be appreciated.” He stamps a kiss against the corner of her mouth, lingering there until Addison adjusts her angle to kiss him properly.

They embrace for a few more minutes, kisses long and slow, not as desperate as before. Addison breaks first this time, sliding her mouth away and tucking her head beneath his chin. Mark loosens his arms from where they’re locked around her hips, uncertain what to do next.

“When we’re like this...” Addison finally says, words feather-soft as they glide over the hollow of his throat. “I forget everything else. Because that weekend mattered to me. I know that’s cheesy, and again, I’m not trying to make it more than what it was, and maybe it just feels this easy and fun between us because we’re close and we’ve known each other for such a long time, but I just…I don’t know.” She offers a one-shoulder shrug and then straightens up to look at him, blue-green eyes shiny and vulnerable. Mark is close enough that he can see the flares of yellow near her pupils. “I wish I could stay here longer,” she admits, surprised that she feels brave enough to share this with him.

Mark’s response comes easier than he would have ever thought possible: “Me too.”

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

Addison knows who is at the front door that evening. Of course she knows. It’s predictable, but it isn’t just that – she sensed it and envisioned it on a deeper level too, even before it happened. This isn’t the first time she’s gone to open a door and known exactly what she was about to see on the other side, exactly what the person would look like, exactly what they would be wearing, and exactly what condition she would find them in. And if she was cautious, if she was sensible, she wouldn’t answer. But much like the day before Susan’s funeral, when she felt that fierce pull to go down the stairs and open the wine cellar door, Addison feels the same pull now.

A fleet of stars shimmer across a clear night sky when Addison opens the door to greet Mark, and she briefly recalls this morning, when she was thinking about what a beautiful day this was. It still holds true.

“I was in the neighborhood.” Mark states calmly. The Loro Piana scarf she accidentally left in his office is tucked under one of his arms. His thumb absently strums over the eyelash fringe at the ends of the material.

“In the neighborhood,” she deadpans. “Mm-hmm. Right.”

“You forgot your scarf. And…and I know he isn’t here tonight,” Mark adds, face etched with extraordinary boldness, even for him. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have…”

Addison steps aside for him to enter. Because…of course she does. “Damn it, Mark,” she says in frustration, but also consent. She grabs onto the lapels of his leather jacket and pulls him with her towards the entryway wall. Her scarf swishes to the floor between them.

It happened this afternoon. And of course it’s going to happen again now. _Of course it is._ Because Addison is lonely enough and desperate enough that Mark’s mere presence seems to decree that this will happen again. And it may just _keep_ happening, because every time he so much as looks at her now, Addison finds it hard to care that her marriage seems less and less likely to stretch towards infinity. It’s like a moon breaking apart and a star losing its footing in the sky all at once, because when Mark touches her as though they’re the only people in the universe, her marriage doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but them.

The pleasurable contrasts amaze her. Cold is seeping in through the front door – Mark didn’t shut it all the way, or she just didn’t give him an opportunity to – but Addison feels so warm in his arms. His hips and thighs are powerful as he keeps her pressed against the wall, but his hands are achingly soft as they travel along her body, exploring her curves. His teeth drag against her collarbone, but he soothes each abrasion afterwards with his tongue.

She loses track of time as they exchange unhurried, gratifying kisses. It’s comfortable, as though they have all the time in the world. They don’t though. They _don’t_. This Addison knows for sure, even though time seems to have no meaning right now. Truth and precision are attracting and repelling while Mark sweeps his tongue against hers and touches all the parts of her that he can fill his hands with. The slowness won’t last though. She can’t feel Mark’s frustration against her – yet, anyway – so evidently he is okay with the pacing too, even though, like her, he probably wants more. _More, more, more_. Sometimes that is all Addison can think about. She yields to his movements, her limbs being worked like marionette strings.

“Mark…” she finally murmurs. “We can’t do this here.” Because they can’t. Everything about this – everything including and since that weekend in the Hamptons – is wrong, but Addison can’t quite think of anything _more_ wrong at the moment than getting naked with her husband’s best friend in the house she shares with Derek.

“Then let’s not stay here.” It’s another highlight in distinctions. Mark’s voice is simultaneously rough and gentle when he talks like this, when he tries to coax her along in the pursuit of more pleasure. Just more anything, really. “Come home with me.” But he pulls back, stomach tightening when he hears Addison start to cry. “Addie…”

“I…I can’t. I _can’t_. This afternoon, I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…” She shakes her head when he thumbs at one of her tears and rests his other hand against her upper arm, fingers softly curled around her. “You’re right…” she continues, momentarily distracted by this comforting gesture. “I can’t keep using you like this. I’m being selfish and just…just taking what I need, or something.” She watches as Mark’s gaze briefly flickers to the floor, and then back to her.

“He would always look at his feet before he lied,” Derek said once, when he was talking about what he and Mark were like as kids. Addison can see the reframe in her mind though, and it sends a spark of fretfulness through her: _he does this before he tells the truth_.

Mark’s voice is halting and low when he speaks. “I know what I said earlier, but I’m sort of okay with you using me if this is what it involves. This afternoon when we were talking about us, about that weekend…you said it mattered. And you said you weren’t trying to make it a thing and I get that and I’m not either, but I just…I just wanted you to know it mattered to me, too. I know you’re his though. I’m not trying to, like, take you from him or make this a _thing_. We’re just two people scratching an itch.”

“We can’t keep scratching though. I’m married, Mark. And I love him. We’re Addison and Derek. And just because he would never know…that doesn’t make it okay. Yes, he’s absent and indifferent and today he said something absolutely awful to me, but that still doesn’t make any of this okay or _right_. He’s a good person. I can’t do this to him. _We_ can’t do this to Derek. So I need you to leave. Please. You have no idea how much I want you right now, but I can’t do this. So. Please?” Addison’s voice climbs up at the end. She is shaky, fragile when Mark releases her arm. It occurs to him that she needs him to say _no_ because she can’t. And that’s his role, normally. He’s the bad one, the flawed one.

“Yeah.” Mark clears his throat. “Yeah, of course. I’ll go. I’m sorry, Red.”

She shakes her head. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t be so hell-bent on hitting the self-destruct button on my marriage. I want to go with you to your place, Mark, I do – but it’s wrong. I think…” she gives him a tired smile as she rubs at her cheekbones, the ruins of dampened mascara spread like ashes across her skin. “I need to talk to someone. Like a professional.”

“Right. I should…right. Well, I guess…I should get going.” He takes a step back. A big one. He vaguely recalls a game Derek’s sisters used to love to play when they were little: _Mother May I?_ or something like that. Mark takes a step back. And then another. _Twirl like a princess_. The girls wanted that one the most. “Addison…have a good Christmas. And I’ll…” God, he hates that he’s about to say something so annoying and cliché. “I’ll see you next year.”

But Mark _has_ become a cliché, hasn’t he? He’s fooling around with his best friend’s _wife_. And he’s…what? He feels bad about any pain or anxiety this is causing Addison, and he feels bad that she started to cry tonight, but he’s not exactly remorseful. He might have just been repeating what she said, but he still said that it _mattered_. Why though? He isn’t quite sure, other than the fact that the answer is _no_ , which of course appeals to him because so rarely is he _not_ able to get what he wants. He finds a way. He always does. Sometimes it’s simply sheer force of will – Mark has always had that in spades, and examples rush through him as he walks away from the brownstone and hails a cab, directing the driver back to the Upper East Side. He was a four-year starting wide receiver in high school, even though he wasn’t ever the fastest or strongest player on the field. He also found a way with test scores. With match rankings. With talking his way out of more than one physical altercation. With women who shouldn’t necessarily be making themselves available to him. He can build anything up and tear anything down. _Mother May I have…Addison? No, Mark, you disgusting, hopeless excuse for a human being. It’s wrong_. _She’s the wife of your best friend – the wife of your brother, really._

Maybe the willpower comes from self-loathing rather than wanting to actually accomplish something though? Maybe. It sort of makes sense. He should ask Olivia.

And it’s strange from this angle, even if Mark were to find a way to remove himself and see the whole thing from the perspective of an outsider. It never seems like it’s the man who is doing the pining. It’s always “the other woman,” waiting for the day her lover leaves his doe-eyed, unsuspecting wife and they ride off into the sunset together.

Mark stops at a bar near his apartment and flirts over multiple scotches with a cute brunette who shrugs and agrees when he asks if she wants to _get out of here_. Haley? Hallie? Fuck, what does it matter. She’s just split up with someone, and is looking to have a little fun. And that’s his sweet spot. She probably won’t remember his name in the morning, either.

She’s not the only one in recent weeks, but by Mark’s standards, he’s definitely hit something of a sexual plateau throughout November and December. It’s Addison’s fucking fault. She’s a distraction, even when he’s not with her or talking to her.

He tried to see a therapist after his mother died. Her name was Olivia…Olivia something. It felt foolish though, even in the reasonable face of trying to navigate grief and loss. He didn’t stick with it long, and he didn’t expect it to have any actual effect on him regardless of how much money he forked over each session. People aren’t perfect little continents of joy, he believes, nor can they become one. Not in this world, not when you have zero control over what other people do and say. Or what people do and say to you.

Mark still has the therapist’s card tucked away somewhere, its edges a little worn from the amount of times he ran his thumb over them when he contemplated whether or not to keep an appointment. He’s not sure why, but he considers calling Olivia again. Maybe.

And here’s another cliché: he thinks of Addison the whole time he’s with H-something.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References
> 
> Slight nods to the following exchanges:
> 
> Addison to Mark in Grey’s, 3x03. “Here’s the thing. We’ve both really enjoyed each other. Before and…now again.” Also there is cute hair stroking and shoulder rubbing involved and then lololol jumpy Addison loses her mind and accidentally smacks Mark at the end of the scene when they’re about to kiss. And also, we know from a slightly later episode in S3 that pickles amuse Mark and he is completely comfortable asking Addison if she wants his pickle. 
> 
> A wonderful Addison and Bailey exchange in Grey’s 3x04 (I loved their relationship):
> 
> Bailey: “Never would have figured Mark Sloan to be your type.”  
> Addison: “He’s not...he’s not! What is he doing here? He’s not supposed to be here. I can’t have him here. He’s supposed to be in New York. I can’t…I can’t function with him here. I’m a professional here, people respect me here. But when he’s here, I’m just... I’m...”  
> Bailey: “A woman who gets the hots for man candy and cheats on her husband?”  
> Addison: “That is rude. And unkind…and completely true.”
> 
> Grey’s, 3x08:  
> Bailey: “Did you ever think about having kids?”  
> Addison: “Derek and I talked about it, but I wasn’t ready.”
> 
> I’m not going to track down the Private Practice episode, but one time a patient asked Addison what she would name a baby, and she said Carson, because it could be “a girl or a boy name.” And…okay, sure. But then she named her son Henry and her daughter would have been named Ella (*sobs loudly*), so those deviate pretty greatly from the, um, Carson-ness of her possible first choice. Anyway. So Liz having a Carson is just a nod to that. (We also know that in Grey’s season 1, Derek had nine nieces and five nephews at the time…and Amelia didn’t have children then, so the other three Shepherd ladies were busy).
> 
> Addison talking to her brother about Bizzy’s manner of death in Private Practice 4x14: “I mean, when I was younger, I would’ve thought it was weak…she wasn’t thinking. She was broken from grief. She was out to sea and she drowned.” (I think it’s clear or clear-ish where I’m going with the Bizzy backstory/storyline, and I’m not trying to be secretive about it…I’m just not revealing it all at once.)
> 
> Hmm, let’s see. Other stuff: Derek is a tough one for me to write, so I’m doing my best with that, but ugh, I don’t particularly enjoy writing him, so hopefully I’m capturing his “essence” okay…like so, so many of the male characters in Shonda Rhimes’s worlds, he’s incredibly toxic (for all the Scandal fans out there, he doesn’t reach the level of unbearable toxicity that President Grant does, but still). Derek sees the world in black and white (his mother has said as much), but there is still plenty of gray/nuance to him as well, so hopefully a smidge of that is coming across.
> 
> Susan’s diagnosis/complications are mostly pulled from bits in season 4 of Private Practice, and Bizzy calling Addison a “passive spectator” also happened.
> 
> Oh, and also, there really IS something about Addison in black. We’re all on agreement on this one, yes? Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


	11. Tracks in the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a song by The Civil Wars.

**Chapter 11. Tracks in the Snow**

Addison sees the way Derek looks when he’s holding baby Stella on Christmas Eve. And it eats at her, it really does, even though she is certain she has a similar look on her face while Carson is snuggled in her arms. It’s just always harder to see pain on someone else’s face than it is on your own, though. Eventually they’ll trade babies, but for now the twins are content, and Addison and Derek have held enough nieces and nephews (now eight and five, respectively, and TBD for Nancy’s latest) to know better than to tempt fade. Derek lift his gaze at one point though and smiles at Addison, which chips away at the knot of anxiety in her stomach; things are still a bit tension-filled since their argument a few days ago. And it doesn’t seem to matter what Addison says or does; it’s all just _wrong_ , somehow.

She wonders where hers and Derek’s baby will fit in numbers-wise. Addison would be happy with either of course, but she has a solid _feeling_ that they will have a boy (or a boy first, if they have more than one child). She thinks back to the pregnancy test she took on her thirty-fifth birthday. The following morning, she let Derek know it would be a later-than-usual night – she had a Cytogenetics lecture to attend, and he made a face at this. Derek had been surprised at how quickly Addison went back to work after Susan died and after Bizzy’s “scare” – he thought she might take some time off, but Addison had her fellowship to think about. Besides, work was a nice distraction.

“Honey, I know you’re still disappointed about the results,” she said. “And it’s not like I’m not- _not_ disappointed, but we’ll start trying soon enough. It’s just one more year. It’ll go fast. Plus, you’re still getting things up and running…”

Derek started his practice at the beginning of the year, and it’s thriving so far – it’s exceeded their expectations, honestly (Addison pouring in a little start-up money courtesy of her trust fund helped, of course). It’s still a _lot_ to take on though, and has come with a learning curve. A related problem is that Derek assumed once the initial owning-your-own-practice kinks were worked out, they would start trying for a baby, even though Addison was already in her medical genetics fellowship program by this point and they had talked beforehand about how she – they, but mostly _she_ – did not want to get pregnant as a fellow. 

“It’s just that after everything that’s gone on recently, I thought maybe you’d think about…” Derek quiets, and Addison’s eyes widen when she realizes what he’s hinting at.

“That I’d think about _quitting_? God, you’ve seriously _never_ been supportive of me pursuing this fellowship. You understand when we have children, I’m not planning on _not_ being a surgeon, right? Derek...a kid or me?”

“Addison, are you _seriously_ -”

“Wait, no. Just listen for a sec. I want a baby. I want a baby with you, I _do_. That wasn’t an ultimatum. But I’m just saying…we’re already a family. And sometimes…sometimes you make me feel like I’m not enough for you.”

“I’m not trying to…” Derek sighed and came over to her, squeezing her hands. “You’re enough for me, Addie.”

Was she though? _Is_ she though?

 _I’m not enough._ It’s something that has always plagued her, and it doesn’t matter how much she has accomplished on a professional level. It’s never been about that, anyway.

Mark tried therapy in his thirties; Addison tried when she was twenty. It was the college semester from hell: she was taking Organic Chemistry, Physics 2, Multivariable Calculus, Conversational French, Introduction to the Modern European Novel, and tennis. She wanted to graduate in three and-a-half years, and truthfully, she was interested in all of these subjects. Addison was pushing herself to the limit though, maybe even past it. She was stressed and couldn’t sleep. And not that she had a spare second of time _at all_ , but she signed herself up for an appointment with some sort of counselor at the student wellness center, wondering if maybe that would help her find ways to cope with the stress and settle her mind enough to fall asleep at night (going the private route wasn’t an option; she didn’t know if there would be some sort of insurance trail of information that would leak its way back to Bizzy and the Captain, who would surely have things to say about their daughter _talking to someone_ ). Addison’s then-roommate, Savvy, encouraged her to check out the wellness center – this was _after_ encouraging Addison to drop tennis and French, and what the hell, _the real world and being an actual grownup seems so crappy, why would you want to graduate in less than four years anyway?_

So Addison met with someone, but she was too nervous to stick with it, and never called to schedule a second appointment. It was the question _What do you do to soothe yourself?_ that alarmed her. She didn’t have an answer, because self-soothing sort of implied she knew what it was she _needed_. Instead, Addison told her counselor dropping a course felt like a personal failure, and, well – after that, she remembered doing a lot of listening, chiming in with short, clipped responses even in the face of prompts and open-ended questions. _So, Addison…let’s say you were to lighten your schedule…if you did, would you be disappointing anyone else, or just yourself? You seem like a perfectionist, so it’s always hard to make adjustments like this in your head, but don’t think of it as lowering your expectations – think of it as making your expectations realistic. But at the beginning of our session, you mentioned not feeling like you were ‘good enough,’ and based on some of the ‘yes’ answers on the questionnaire you filled out for me…we should try to explore that. Let’s go back to that. Because maybe this isn’t just about your classes. I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. And letting others take care of you, too – that’s important._

In the end, it was easier to just take a stupid incomplete in tennis.

. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

“So, Garden Club.” Mark acknowledges, still a little bemused. “I guess I knew that was a _thing_ , but I also…didn’t know it was a thing.”

It is a nice day in New Haven, with a gentle spring breeze ruffling at his shoulders when he climbs into the back of Derek’s car. His best friends have just picked him up at the hotel he checked into a few hours ago. Mark is performing a complex surgery early tomorrow morning at Yale New Haven, and the timing worked out (perhaps unfortunately, given that _club_ is preceded by _garden_ rather than _night_ or, hell, basically anything else) that Derek and Addison were going to be in the area on Sunday.

Derek chuckles. “Welcome to certain Connecticut zip codes, Mark. You just have to feign interest for like an hour once we get to this thing. It’s awkward, but doable. And luckily we don’t have to do this often…”

“True. Bizzy doesn’t ask for much,” Addison chimes in. Well. Other than trying to save Susan last April, that is. “And, you know. This past year was rough for her, with…with losing her friend. So, like Derek said: just feign interest while looking at the flowers. Then we can get out of there and grab a drink somewhere.”

“So, basically…” Mark grins as something registers with him. “This afternoon is the law of Garden Club and feign.”

“What?”

“You know. Like, the law of club and fang,” Mark says, but Derek’s eyes lift to the rearview mirror in confusion, and Addison twists around in the passenger seat to regard Mark with an expression that matches her husband’s. “ _The Call of the Wild_. Damn it, you guys. That was solid. And for two really well-read people -”

“You’re right,” Addison interrupts with a laugh. “I get it now. That was a good one.”

“It was my favorite book when I was younger. And here you both probably thought I was illiterate.”

“Still do, on occasion,” Derek quips. “Is that the one Mrs. Hess was all over you about?”

“Yep. So, Addison…I’m not sure how things worked for you at Ms. Porter’s WASP Exeter Academy of Patch and Polka-Dot Gold -”

“Also known as Carrington Prep,” Addison breathes out in amusement.

“But at our humble school, it was a class set of books and we had to return them once we were done and the unit was wrapped up. And I…was resistant to giving my copy back. I only did once Mrs. Hess got a hold of Jenny…and obviously that took a minute, because after school was usually, I guess you could say, my mother’s ‘disco nap’ time.”

“And then you got in additional trouble because…?” Derek prompts with a simpering look, and Mark rolls his eyes. He doesn’t particularly _mind_ sharing this, and he knows his friend means well, but every once in a while Mark would just to love to knock that look of self-righteousness off Derek’s face.

“I hated how the book ended,” he answers. “I get _why_ it ended how it did, but ten-year-old Mark had some…feelings about it. So I ripped out the last few pages – somewhere before Buck’s final owner was killed – and Mrs. Hess discovered it right away. I probably subconsciously wanted her to. She should have just given the book back to me…I’m sure she didn’t end up using that particular one with future classes.”

“She probably didn’t want to reward you for being an ass. She always had a soft spot for you though,” Derek puts in thoughtfully. “Most of our teaches did.”

“Well...” Mark says. Whatever. Let Derek be the Good One, the Superior One. It’s no skin off Mark’s nose. His far _nicer_ shaped nose, he might add. “Mrs. Hess’s soft spot went away when I was in high school and she walked in on me and her daughter.” Derek already knows this, so Mark is mostly explaining it to Addison. “Lainey Hess was in my Geometry class.”

Addison raises an eyebrow in amusement. “And I’m guessing Mrs. Hess didn’t walk in on you two _studying_.”

“Debatable. There’s more than one way to study, Red. Angles are just two figures that meet at a common point, after all. And apologies to Mrs. Hess, but it’s not like Lainey was a beacon of purity before that afternoon. If we’re talking angles and degrees here, then you should know that that girl could get both her legs -”

“Mark, I’m begging you to stop,” Derek says.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
“Hey,” Mark says, opening his apartment door for Addison. His face doesn’t indicate any surprise, because unexpected arrivals don’t really end up _being_ unexpected when you have a doorman who will notify you when a woman – _Addison Montgomery-Shepherd_ – shows up in the lobby asking for you around eight on Friday evening. He knows why she’s here, of course. It’s January second, his birthday, and despite him telling Addison and Derek for _years_ not to get him anything for Christmas or his birthday (“Are we really going to keep doing this gift exchange shit?”), they never listen. Well. Addison never listens. In normal circumstances, in non-adultery circumstances, she’d just hang on to the present until Mark came over to their place to watch a Giants or Knicks game, or just drop it off at his office if she had a long lunch.

“Hey,” she answers, and Mark moves back for her to enter, figuring she wouldn’t have come if she didn’t plan to. “Happy New Year. And happy birthday, Mark. I wasn’t sure if you’d be out celebrating…” she says with a small, teasing grin. This is never a possibility, they both know. Mark doesn’t necessarily _dread_ his birthday, but he doesn’t promote it. He’d prefer to spend it alone. He can’t stand that thing that happens if he has to show his ID and someone looks at it and realizes it’s his birthday and is too enthusiastic in their response. Also, most people are still recovering from the holidays and New Year’s Eve parties anyway. That’s how it always was with Everett and Jenny, at least. And he knows it’s a stupid grievance, and obviously some people have _real_ problems, but he thinks it would have been kind of nice to have had an actual birthday party just once as a little kid. “I wanted to bring you your gift though,” Addison tells him.

“Thanks. That’s nice of you. So, the next time I see Derek, will he know what it is I’m thanking him for?” Mark asks. It’s another running joke; Addison always signs Derek’s name on whatever gift she selects, and Derek may or may not know what said gift is.

“No. This one is…it’s just from me, actually. But Derek told me he would text you today to wish you a happy birthday, so hopefully he did that.” Addison is peering distractedly over Mark’s shoulder while she answers his question. “He’s in Seattle. He’s assisting Richard with a case. Richard is the chief of surgery at Seattle Grace. I don’t think your path ever crossed with him – Richard Webber – but he was briefly at our hospital while we were residents. I just…” she smiles wider when Mark finally turns to see what she’s staring at. “Your tree is still up.” She walks over to it, and Mark realizes that even though it’s _just_ a birthday, of course Addison would want him to open his present in front of a tree. He sinks to the floor beside her, glad he thought to plug in the lights earlier.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to take it down…”

“I like that it’s still up,” Addison says brightly while reaching into her handbag. “So, your gift – I didn’t wrap it, and it’s really just a little something…” a delicate flush crosses over her cheeks when she hands him a hardcover copy of _The Call of the Wild._ “All the pages are in there,” she adds with a grin.

“You remembered. Thank you, Red.” Mark takes the book from her, feeling genuinely touched. Addison has always been the queen of thoughtful gifts. “I feel like I should give you a hug, but, uh, given our recent history, it’s probably not a good idea.”

“Probably not, but then again…I wouldn’t have come here if I weren’t interested in a hug and...you know, other things,” she answers slowly. “Before Christmas when you brought my scarf back, you said you were okay with me using you, and I – I don’t _want_ you to be okay with that, Mark. You’re a good man, sometimes. I mean…sorry.” Addison winces. “I didn’t mean for that to sound insulting. I’m just trying to say you deserve better than a fling with a married woman, but if...if you _are_ still interested in doing fling-ish things with me -”

“What changed?” He interrupts.

“Nothing. And that’s the problem. That’s always the problem with Derek. And I don’t want to hurt him or keep breaking my vows, and I know what you and I have been doing isn’t okay, but I just...I still want you. I feel _good_ when I’m with you. You make me feel good. And I...I think I make you feel good, too?” Addison pauses, and then smiles, almost shyly, and then almost with relief when Mark quietly says that she makes him feel good as well. “And I know that afterwards...if this were to happen again...”

“We’re gonna feel dirty and like crap.”

“Yes,” she says in agreement. “The guilt is going to be a hailstorm of self-loathing and misery. It’s just...I’m starting to think I can find a way to bear that, because...well. This is enough, in some ways. Like I said: I feel good when I’m with you. And I like being _with_ you, even though it’s wrong and at the end of the day I have a husband. But if...if you want me, in any capacity, then right now…I’d like to stay for a bit.”  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

“You’re telling me you gave up.” Bizzy finally pulls her attention away from staring out the window at the East River. Addison and Derek told her a few minutes ago that Susan didn’t make it, and then they escorted Bizzy to a private room, because Addison’s mother is very much of the opinion that tears should not be shed in public. “When Susan…when she…” Bizzy continues. “Addison why didn’t you _save_ her? How could you just stand there and watch her die?”

Why? Because that was Addison’s _job_ in that moment, to follow what she documented on the medical chart. She remembers what Susan told her two days ago while signing the necessary paperwork: _If it weren’t for your mother, I don’t think I ever would’ve come here. But I love her. She’s my best friend. I want to do it...for her. Don’t be a hero though, Addie. If something happens during my surgery, that’s it._

Bizzy still hasn’t cried. And now Derek has stepped out of the room to give them privacy. Apparently he didn’t notice Addison’s silent, frantic plea of _do not leave me alone with her_.

“She didn’t want extraordinary measures. She signed a DNR. She didn’t want me to tell you. I…I couldn’t do anything at that point. I know you wanted heroics, but that’s not what Susan wanted. If you want to be angry at me for that, I get it, but it won’t -”

“My life _began_ when I met Susan. Do you understand that? She meant…” Bizzy shakes her head. Her voice finally does crack a little, unsteadiness overtaking the normally cold, formal tone just for a moment. “You and your brother – you took everything. Especially you. Because that’s what children _do_ , Addison. They take and they take and they take until there’s nothing left. So I threw birthday parties and I smiled and I kept my mouth shut. You have no idea the sacrifices a woman makes when she has children. Susan was the one thing that was for _me_.”

Addison ducks her head when quivering tears start to fall down her cheeks.

Two weeks later, she almost loses Bizzy. But she lost her a little on this day, too.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

Mark is slightly transfixed as Addison moves above him, spread legs (surprisingly powerful legs, he discovers) trapping him in place. The lights from the Christmas tree – damn, what a fantastic idea to be too lazy to put it away yet – are shining on her chest and stomach while she rocks forward and backwards against him.

He doesn’t understand his best friend. Not that Mark _wants_ to think about that right now, because he doesn’t, but it’s just…seriously _what_ is Derek’s problem? With a wife who looks like this, and is also _brilliant_ and kind and funny…how could Derek not want to be inside her morning, noon, and night? Hell, it wouldn’t even _have_ to be full-on sex. Mark doesn’t believe there is an existing limit to how much time he would spend with his face buried between Addison’s thighs if he had the chance. He would do literally anything to pleasure her, to make her feel good, and it occurs to him that he _does_ have a chance tonight. He’ll wait, of course. They’re both too far gone at this point to switch things up, and _fuck_ , this feels incredible, but as soon as they’re finished with _this_ , well, Mark definitely has some plans. For now though, he braces his hands against Addison’s waist for support, but lets her control the rhythm. He occasionally scales his hands up the ladder of her ribs to fondle her breasts – and although he loves whenever her hands move to cover his, he loves it even more when Addison touches herself before he can. When she does it a third time, he tells her how sexy she is, and her smile lengthens.

“You know…this might be my favorite birthday ever,” Mark says.

“Mmm. Mine too,” Addison tells him, even though it makes no sense and ends up triggering a light laugh from them both. She knots a hand in the hair covering the nape of her neck – as much as she can manage to grab, head tilting towards the ceiling from the pressure – and her other hand is behind her, fingernails drifting over Mark’s thigh, enhancing the arch in her back and offering him a lot to look at. And although it’s far, _far_ from what could be considered a disreputable position, Addison vaguely wonders if she looks like a porn star while doing this (and possibly _sounds_ like one, because there has been a lot of groaning and hums of satisfaction on her part, as well as some name-repetition that Mark’s already over-inflated ego doesn’t need). If she does though, Mark doesn’t care. She sees how he’s been looking at her, and she absolutely loves it. It only increases her excitement and emboldens her to keep touching herself for his benefit. “Feels so good,” she mumbles. “Oh…oh. God, Mark.”

Addison is well past the point of coherence when Mark pulls her down for a kiss that holds a searing sense of urgency. She moans into his mouth when her muscles seize around him.

It occurs to her not long after this, when Mark is eagerly kissing his way down her body, that he makes her feel like she’s _enough_.  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .  
  
Addison inhales sleepily as her eyes flutter open. She can’t remember when exactly she drifted off. Mark’s living room in encased in darkness save for the glow of his Christmas tree, and she continues to blink heavily. The gray comforter (because of course it’s gray, everything with Mark is always gray or black) draped over her wasn’t here earlier. And she definitely didn’t have her head resting on Mark’s chest earlier. Right now he feels peaceful beneath her, one arm tucked loosely around her as they lie close to his tree.

“You awake?” She asks quietly.

“…I am now.”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s just…Mark Everett Sloan…are you _holding_ me while I sleep?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, which makes them both laugh uncomfortably. Of course they won’t be telling anyone. “And hey, I’m an ass, but not a _total_ ass, Red. I wasn’t going to let your head just loll on the ground while I slept next to you with a pillow and blanket. By the way…remind me to never call you in case of an emergency.” And then Mark remembers with a jolt that when it comes to necessary HR paperwork, Addison is actually second on his designated contact list.

Derek is first.

Addison smiles curiously at this statement. “Why?”

“Because you didn’t wake up during any of that. I can _understand_ how you might be a little worn out…” Mark smirks when she predictably flicks him in the shoulder with her thumb and pointer finger. “But still. I guess you would have woken up if I pulled you to your feet and we went to my actual bed rather than lying here inevitably fucking up our backs, but, you know…I have my doubts.”

“I’m sort of a deep sleeper when I know it’s okay to be. Now that I _am_ awake though, if you’d rather…” Addison adjusts slightly to rest her palms and the point of her chin on the plane of Mark’s chest. She truly means what she is about to say. “I can always go home, if you’d like for me to.”

“At like one in the morning? Uh, no.” And then his voice softens. “Stay, Addison.”

She smiles. “Okay. I will. You know, I just realized…since it’s after midnight…it’s Susan’s birthday. Or was Susan’s birthday.”

“Who?” Mark asks. God, he’s terrible with names. Birthdays, too.

“Susan was my mother’s friend. Ovarian cancer. I operated on her…in April it will be three years since she died,” she explains and Mark nods and tells her he remembers now. “My mother’s best friend,” Addison adds. “And, also. Well. Also her lover.”

Mark’s head jerks back against his pillow in surprise. “Her...wait. Wait. Bizzy’s a _lesbian_?”

“Yeah. Or, I mean. Maybe that’s not how she identifies – I’m sure anything above a zero on the Kinsey scale is _frowned up_ in Bizzy’s world, in what she considers seemly and _un_ seemly, but she loved Susan. For a long time. Bizzy didn’t tell me _directly_ that they were together, but reading between the lines…anyway. I’ve never actually told anyone this. Not my brother or the Captain. Not even Derek.”

“Don’t you think your dad…knows though? And maybe just doesn’t want to tell you and Archer?”

“Definitely possible. Montgomerys tend to look the other way when something is none of their business. I’ve never asked though, and probably never will.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been really hard for all of you. How, uh…how is Bizzy doing now?” Mark thinks back to the last time he saw her – May or June, whenever it was, at the flower thing.

“She’s doing okay. It was hard, for a long time, and obviously Bizzy doesn’t talk about it, but she’s…she’s doing okay.” Addison is willing to say that, but nothing else on the subject, even though she feels a strange pull to tell Mark more, to tell him _everything_. Sometimes at night, she still sees the blood and can hear the hoarseness of her scream. “It helps that she still has the Captain. You know…my parents are best friends. Yes, Susan might have been Bizzy’s “real” best friend, and I guess the love of her life, but my parents are still…they’re genuinely friends and they _like_ each other. They just maybe weren’t meant to be husband and wife and to create a life together. You know, I reread _The Call of the Wild_ after I got that copy for you. And in it, at one point, death is described as ‘a cessation of movement.’ And I just…I know it’s simplistic, but I think that’s a really pretty description. With Bizzy, and I know this is morbid…I’ll be sad when she dies one day. Because I do love her – in whatever way it is that I’m able to, at least. She’s my mother. She’s an impossible woman to please, but she’s still my mother, and I guess, somewhere deep down, there’s that instinct to not give up on our relationship, you know? And even though Bizzy has never said it, even though she _can’t_ say it, I still love her. I loved her then and I love her now, because I can’t let that go and…I’ve carried it with me, I think. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m, you know, married and I have people in my life who I care about and who care about me, but those childhood feelings tend to stick around anyway, so there are still times even now where I’ve felt so completely and utterly…” she pauses when Mark nudges at her shoulder and rolls them over so they’re on their sides. “I don’t know if any of that makes sense. It’s just that our upbringings weren’t all that different…”

“I get it,” Mark says quietly. He tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear, and then keeps his hand framed around her cheekbone. “You’ve felt unloved and alone before, too.”

“Yeah. I don’t…” Addison looks uncertain. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

Mark leans forward to brush his lips against hers. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, moving a hand beneath the blanket to caress her hipbone and thigh that are closest to him. If he can feel the short series of trembles that pass over Addison’s lips and chin between kisses, he doesn’t comment on it, and she appreciates this. Derek always seems annoyed by all her feelings, by what he refers to as “girl flip-out,” even though that’s _not_ always what it is. Addison doesn’t always need tissues, reassurances, hugs. Sometimes she just needs to know that her feelings have been heard and acknowledged. “It’s okay, Addison. I don’t mind,” Mark adds, and it’s so long after the fact that she almost asks, _Mind what?_

“Mark…” she says softly, using an arm to draw him closer to her. “Don’t stop. Please.”

“Always with the manners,” Mark teases. “Once a WASP, always a WASP, huh?” But then he shifts her onto her back and takes his time when he starts to move inside her.

Addison marvels at how well he seems to know her body, seems to recognize her needs. It’s slower this time, with less primal urgency and more sleep-caused lethargy, but Mark is still managing to set all her nerves on fire. It doesn’t take long before she is gasping underneath him, and when waves and waves of pleasure start to land closer together, when Addison feels closer to crying out and is just positively _dizzy_ with need for Mark, she thinks of another part in _The Call of the Wild_ that stuck with her. Buck cared so much for John Thornton that he _allowed passion to usurp cunning and reason_.

Is that what this is, with her husband’s best friend?  
  
. .  
. .  
. .  
. .

“I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“But you came. You came _back_ , actually. Tell me what you think brought you back,” Olivia says.

“I’m sure you already know from past notes from when I saw you like four years ago what it is I need to work on…” Mark pauses, lifting his chin to indicate the clipboard in Olivia’s lap, but his old-new therapist remains frustratingly silent. _That’s part of her job_ , he knows, but it’s still annoying. Olivia will out-silence him and eventually he’ll cave and, ugh, _share things_. “I’m also here, because, just…well, I think I’m falling in love with someone, but I don’t think…I don’t think I can tell her that. I can’t, actually.”

“Saying ‘I love you’ or sharing that your feelings for someone are growing…that’s always a little scary, Mark. You have no way of controlling what this woman’s response will be, or if she’ll feel the same way. But if you don’t try to tell her, you might regret it. We pay a price in so many ways – emotionally and physically, for example – the longer we internalize things.”

“It’s just that…it’s my best friend’s wife.”

Olivia doesn’t seem to be able to help herself at this remark, though truthfully, Mark isn’t sure what a therapist is _supposed_ to say to something like this. He imagines her face isn’t meant to reveal as much as it does though. And she doesn’t look disappointed, like how Lynette sort of initially looked when Mark told her…Olivia just looks sad. Sad for _him_.

“Oh, Mark,” she replies gently, tightening her fingers around her clipboard.  
  
. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> Oh cool, another page of notes. Here we go, and God help us all.
> 
> Grey’s 3x07, in an exchange between Addison and Callie, Addison describes sleeping with Mark as “a hailstorm of self-loathing and misery.”
> 
> Addison explaining the DNR to Bizzy is mostly a copy/paste, as is the heartbreaking “My life began when I met Susan…” speech with a few modifications. Same with the “impossible to please” bit and also the fact that as far as loving her daughter, Bizzy has (allegedly) never said it and can’t say it (Note: I tend to look up these quotes way in advance, and take what I need, then plug them into notes on my phone as I’m writing scraps of future scenes/outlining…so I’m not always good about remembering exact quotes and specific episodes unless I look them up again, and quarantine or no quarantine, I just don’t have that kind of time. I promise to always be honest though about anything that isn’t 100% mine). Hmm. What else…Bizzy didn’t believe in crying in public – this was mentioned in Addison’s eulogy. And Susan did tell Addison she was just pursuing treatment because of Bizzy, so that line was a copy/paste. 
> 
> “Girl flip-out” is something Derek said to Addison in Grey’s 2x19 when she wanted to talk about Mark showing up the day before…also, this is the episode where Addison pees outside and gets Poison Oak, and I will forever have questions about this.
> 
> Oh, and Bizzy flower stuff – yes, darlingwrecks, because THIS is important shit. This is def what the readers are here for.
> 
> In PP 4x14, in lieu of flowers when Bizzy died, her Will specified donations be made to the city ballet or Garden Club. Also, in PP 3x10, in a conversation between Bizzy and the Captain that was only loosely heard because the focus of the scene was mainly Addison and Sam (barf…sorry) watching them and trying to figure out what Addison’s parents were saying behind the words they were actually saying:
> 
> Bizzy: “…and the geraniums bloomed. They’re absolutely gorgeous. I think we’ll win first place this year at New Haven.”  
> The Captain: “The Silvermans’ tulips…” (and then it trails off, sparing us additional floral information. Also, I did namedrop Silverman as a last name in chapter 1, because including those subtle-weird details kind of thrills me).
> 
> In PP Season 5, Addison reveals in therapy that there was a semester where she took Organic Chemistry, Physics 2, Multivariable Calculus, Conversational French, Introduction to the Modern European Novel, and tennis. She wanted to graduate in three and-a-half years. And she did take an incomplete in tennis and retook it later (also, GIRL. It was implied that you had tennis lessons and French lessons as a child. Why would you do this to yourself????)
> 
> Mark does call Addison ‘brilliant’ during the following Mark/Derek exchange in Grey’s 8x10:
> 
> Mark: “You know what your problem is? You don’t think anyone who sleeps with me can be talented or have half a brain.”  
> Derek: “That is not true.”  
> Mark: “It’s mostly true.”  
> Derek: “Yeah. Yeah, it’s mostly true.”  
> Mark: “Your ex-wife is brilliant, and she slept with me…I’m not trying to start a fight. I’m just sayin’…”
> 
> (Mark won’t be sleeping with his therapist, if you were wondering that. And it’s a valid thing to wonder, since, you know. Mark.)
> 
> And also, no one on Grey’s ages anyway, but based on how I’m writing them: Mark is 38 at present – January birthday (a memorable birthday…heh). Addison will be 38 in May (I had to go back to a few spots in previous chapters when I listed her age as 35, when in actuality she was almost 35 when Susan died and some shit with Bizzy went down – math and ages in writing is hard, y’all. And Derek will be 39 in September. I decided when I first started writing this fic to make Derek have a slightly “later” birthday, but he started school when Mark did, so Derek typically would have been the oldest in his class. I can’t remember why I did this (probably just one more BS reason in which Derek feels superior to Mark?), but I did. Does any of this matter? No. It matters even less than the flower thing. But I just wanted you to know. 
> 
> Next chapter will be feature angst/angry stuff between Mark and Addison, but…still probably smutty. It’s just never smooth sailing with these two. Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome, and much appreciated.


	12. The Higher You Climb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Chapter title is a song by Dan Fogelberg.

**Chapter 12. The Higher You Climb**

**  
** “Look at me. No.” Addison raises a finger, pointing it close enough to Mark’s face that his eyes will cross if he chooses to focus on it. “ _No_ ,” she repeats, tone fierce.

“Red, what are you even -”

“All right in here?” Derek asks as he comes into the kitchen. He wouldn’t have come in, but Mark went to get them more beers and Addison followed and the whole thing is taking too long. Derek tips his head to the side, trying to figure out the scene in front of him.

“Oh, just the usual,” Mark replies. He steps away from Addison’s bossy index finger to slide Derek another beer. “I’m a thirty-year-old man apparently about to be put in timeout. Your wife is yelling at me and I’m not sure why.”

“Well, what did you do? Or…who?”

“It’s not _who_ Mark is doing at present, Derek. It’s who he is _planning_ to do.”

Derek smirks at this response. “You might have to narrow that down a bit, Addison.”

“It’s Peyton.”

“Peyton?” Derek says slowly, and then his eyes widen. “Wait. _Peyton_ -Peyton? My muesli friend?”

Mark exhales audibly, a scornful noise fluttering past his lips. “God, that’s the weirdest and stupidest friend description I’ve ever heard. I swear I’m gonna sleep with her just because of that.”

“Peyton tends to be in one of the corner break rooms at the hospital most mornings when I’m in there,” Derek explains. “We like the same cereal. She’s so _nice_ , Mark. And she’s your favorite nurse, right, Addie?” He glances at Addison for confirmation, and she nods, and _oh okay_ , Mark sees where they are going with this.

“Look…” Mark says after cracking open his beer. “If I sleep with Peyton and eventually – potentially – _stop_ sleeping with her, that doesn’t mean she’ll end up wanting to transfer to a different hospital. That’s only happened once. Well. Twice.”

Addison shakes her head. “It’s more that if this goes south -”

“Well, that’s usually my plan when I’m -”

“Please don’t finish that. I just mean that it always ends up being a _discussion_. Peyton will be professional, sure, but she’ll find ways to slide in questions and comments about what’s going on with you, if I think things could ever be serious between the two of you…things like that. She’s going to pick my brain.” Addison offers Mark a grin that doesn’t seem _entirely_ strained, so he smiles back. Even though she doesn’t necessarily approve of Mark’s lifestyle, she does tend to get some amusement out of it – just like Derek. Mark can tell though that at the end of the day, his friends think what any content married couple thinks about their single friends: _aren’t you so glad we don’t have to date anymore?_

“So I guess if I sleep with Peyton, in order to keep you both happy I’ll have no choice but to seriously date and then propose and then settle down with this chick and live happily-muesli-ever-after.”

“Guess so,” Derek replies. “You _should_ get married at some point, Mark. I promise you’ll like it. Otherwise you’re going to one day be in your fifties hitting on women who are far, far too young for you, and it’s just not a good look.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll even let you help me with the proposal for this one, provided there’s no muesli involved.”

Addison smiles fondly as she recalls her own proposal from a few years ago. It was their “dating anniversary,” and Derek wanted to brownbag it for lunch at the Empire State Building, and then head to the Hamptons. They rented a house there for the weekend. It wasn’t Derek’s favorite place, but Addison loved it, so he was willing to tolerate it for her.

She knew the proposal was going to happen that day – after a certain amount of time, marriage just felt expected, a dating anniversary is a fairly standard day to propose, and she could see little “signs” all morning. Derek was fidgety and kept tucking a hand into his pocket. She thought maybe he would propose over dinner, but it happened earlier, which was nice, because Addison was surprised, but not _entirely_ surprised. She was peeking through one of the cute little viewfinders on the observation deck, and then felt movement beside her. She looked away from the stretch of greenery comprising Central Park in the distance through cross-hatched fencing, and saw Derek kneeling before her with a jewelry box in his hand. He sweetly told her that he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her, and then asked her to marry him. Addison happily said yes, her voice a little muffled over the soft, excited murmurings of a few onlookers.

“You won’t ever hurt me, right?” She asked a few nights later as she twisted her engagement ring around her finger. She was still getting used to wearing it. She was still getting used to the idea that someone loved her enough to marry her, that someone loved her enough to want to spend a lifetime with her.

Derek pressed his lips to her temple. “I won’t ever hurt you.”

. .  
. .

Addison is like an addict in need of a fix. She and Mark are careful, of course. Sex only ever happens at Mark’s apartment or in his office. And maybe _addict_ isn’t the correct term, because this isn’t quite the same as how she imagines the pervasive need to shoot up every day would be – she _can_ go without seeing Mark, even though she’d prefer not to.

It happens usually three nights a week, maybe once a week in his office where Addison sinks her teeth into his shoulder so she doesn’t make noise (the withering look she gets from Lynette each time she arrives at Mark’s practice is uncomfortable enough without other people hearing what they’re up to). Having sex in an office is a newer development for her. In general, aside from a few encounters with Derek earlier in their residency, she’s never been a proponent of hospital intimacy…or office intimacy, as it now is. Work is for working. Lunch breaks are for lunching. But now there are days where she doesn’t think she can _wait_ to be with Mark, so powerful is the lust warming her from the inside out. Okay. So maybe _addict_ fits just fine then.

Novels and movies have always led Addison to believe that carrying on an affair is stressful, but in her current situation, it’s kind of…not? There are some strategic components to it, yes – specifically ensuring she and Mark don’t get caught, and she is always quick to hop in the shower at the brownstone if she didn’t shower before leaving Mark’s – so there is some “pressure” in that sense, but it’s just not the same thing as feeling… _stressed_. It’s exciting, actually. It’s exciting to be able to talk to Derek so he can tell her what time he expects to be home or when he’s on-call so she knows when to arrive and depart from Mark’s apartment. And honestly, it’s even _more_ exciting on the days she can’t connect with her husband and instead scans the OR board and call lists and timetables to figure out Derek’s whereabouts…which then dictate hers. Addison almost finds herself _disappointed_ on the nights her husband arrives home when she does, and while she is disgusted with herself for feeling this way, it doesn’t take much to forget these feelings, at least for a little bit. All it takes is being with Mark, which hits the _pause_ button on everything else, even if it means the emotions will roar back painfully hard later. In that period of suspension though, the kisses cover the guilt. The foreplay replaces all thoughts of loneliness. And the sex itself replaces Addison’s general unhappiness and self-loathing.

She never calls ahead before showing up, and maybe that’s inconsiderate – she wouldn’t just show up at Savvy and Weiss’s Tribeca loft unannounced, for example – but an affair isn’t really _meant_ to be considerate. And what they have after a solid month of consistently sleeping together seems to work for them, and Mark certainly hasn’t complained if he’s not a fan of Addison coming and going as she pleases.

Addison smiles politely as she steps into the attended lobby of Mark’s building one evening during the second week of February. The doorman, Tom, recognizes her now. Each time she enters the building, she winds her engagement ring around, hiding the diamond, which is stupid…it’s not like this action somehow makes the ring itself and her wedding band invisible. Addison wonders if Tom knows she’s married, or if he suspects it.

“Addison?” Tom hangs up the lobby phone and comes back over to her. His tone sounds different. This is usually the part where he lets Addison know he’s called up to Mark’s unit and alerted him that she’s here. It’s so habitual now that Addison has already taken a step towards the elevator, even though she can tell something is _off_. “Mark’s not available,” Tom states.

“He’s not there?”

“He’s…he’s there.” Tom looks a little sad for her. “Just…he told me to tell you he’s not available at the moment.” And then Addison understands what the doorman means, what exactly it would be that would render Mark to be _not available_ to her.

“Oh, okay. I see.” Addison is surprised at the catch in her voice. She feels embarrassed for the noticeable vibration in her words, _and_ feels embarrassed for just, well, _feeling_ embarrassed. “I must have mixed my days up.” Addison forces a grin. “I’ll give him a call later. Thank you for letting me know, Tom. And for contacting him for me.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry if this has caused you any inconvenience. And hey…Addison? I just wanted you to know – it’s actually Thomas. I’ll answer to Tom, of course, but I go by Thomas.”

“Oh,” she replies softly. Her eyes briefly flicker to his jacket, where a polished, six-letter nameplate is carefully pinned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…I heard Mark – and someone else one time who was leaving as I was coming in – call you ‘Tom.’ I never thought to ask you though. I’m sorry about that. That was rude of me.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I didn’t take it personally or anything. I just thought you should know. It doesn’t bother me…it’s just one of those names where people look at it and automatically assume a nickname is attached to it. It’s probably why my wife and I went with Adam and Grant for our kids.” Tom-now-Thomas shrugs at her. “No chance of making those names anything other than what they really are at first glance, right?”

“Right. You know…” Addison says, not at all sure why she’s choosing to contribute more to the conversation. It occurs to her though, what’s the point of going home? There isn’t anything or anyone _for_ her there. But then, the same goes for here at the moment. “‘Addison’ has become a more popular girls name in recent years, but for years it was more of a boy name. It’s not the same thing, but I’ve definitely had people in my life who see my name in writing – both at my job and otherwise – and automatically think, ‘oh, that’s a guy.’”

“I guess people tend to just interpret things the way they want to interpret them. And see whatever it is they want to see, even when it’s wrong.”

. .  
. .

“I’m so sorry,” Addison calls out, her voice a little breathless when she finds her husband in the living room. She gives him a small smile, her energy level hovering on a contradictory level somewhere between bone-tired exhaustion and the euphoric feeling that comes from getting to perform her own surgeries. As a surgical resident with some experience under her belt, it’s been happening more and more lately for her and those around her: Derek, Sam, Naomi, and Mark have also gotten more chances to be respective surgical leads, and it has yet to lose its awe-inspiring quality. Perhaps it never will. Derek feels each day is a beautiful day to save lives; Addison is starting to think each day is a beautiful day to simply _cut_.

“No worries. It’s okay.” Derek shrugs mildly. “I have to talk to you about something though,” he says, and Addison smirks, never quite sure how it can be that when her husband jokes around, he can manage to pull off an expression that appears equal parts serious and playful. It’s sort of a skill, she supposes. “And look, I’m sorry it has to be this way, Addison, but you deserve to know: Naomi and I declared our love for one another over dinner tonight. It’s over. I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

“Aren’t you funny.” She laughs. “God, I feel so guilty, but I really am glad you both still went – especially Nai, since she got a sitter for the evening. I saw her before she left, and I loved that dress she was wearing, too. How -”

“It was good, even though it was just half the team present and the salmon wasn’t as good as the one we had at Le Bernardin like two months ago. It was fun to catch up with Nai though; we don’t really get to do that with them as much anymore…or just us either, actually. And hey, did my future wife tell you that Maya is now pronouncing her ‘r’s’ correctly?”

“Yes, and my heart just about exploded with sadness when I heard that. I _delivered_ that kid. I was there when she cut her first tooth, and what the hell…she’s just growing up now. Super rude of her. Thank God I still have that recording of her singing ‘Wudolph the Wed-Nose Weindeer.’ Remember that?”

“She’s gonna hate that so much one day. Tell me about your surgery though. Nai said it was a bilateral oophorectomy?”

And so Addison does tell him. She happily, happily does. And her husband listens.

Addison can’t quite pinpoint when Derek’s enthusiasm for her career dried out. Oh, he’s still supportive of her work, sure – minus his ambivalence about the genetics fellowship – but somewhere along the way, he lost interest in hearing about the patients she treats, about the infants she ensures get to leave the NICU and have a full life, about how she’d like to one day own her own practice just like he does.

Most days, it feels like Derek has lost interest in everything outside his work. Because that’s part of it, isn’t it? Derek has always considered what _he_ does to be more important than whatever Addison and everyone else within the walls of NYP does. He practically equates Neurosurgery with being a god.

But in order to discuss how they’ve gotten to this place and when and why things actually changed, Derek would actually need to be here and be _with_ her…but he’s not.

He’s not.

. .  
. .

“That one. Over there. Brown hair, low ponytail.”

“Hi. Who are we talking about?” Addison asks as she settles into the empty seat beside her husband in the hospital cafeteria. She directs the question to Derek, even though it was Mark who was speaking when she approached. She can tell Mark is looking at her, but she refuses to meet his eyes. _Whatever_ , she thinks. Maybe she’s just _not available_ at the moment.

“Hi.” Derek leans over to kiss her on the cheek. That’s still a thing that happens, at least. And he must have just had a successful surgery, because he seems happy, lighthearted. “We’re talking about Charlene,” he volunteers. “Peds nurse. And Mark’s latest conquest. So if she starts trying to pump you for information about Mark, you’ll know why.” Derek then turns back to face his friend, seated on the other side of the table. “If you’re trying to break some sort of number for how many nurses a guy can sleep with in one lifetime, I promise you, Mark: you are truly the DiMaggio of hospital relations. No one is going to touch the hit streak you’ve collected.”

“Charlene is cute,” Addison volunteers. It’s true, after all. Charlene _is_ cute. And Addison feels like she needs to say something. Her silence just seems… _telling_ , otherwise. To her, at least.

“Yeah. And she’s been on a few of my cases when I’ve had little ones on the operating table,” Derek adds. “She’s really good. Smart. Probably a few years younger than us, I would guess, but still age-appropriate. And she seems to have substance.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Which means you’re surprised that she slept with me? Or you’re surprised that I slept with her?”

“Both. Come on, Mark. I’ve known you practically my whole life. There have been plenty of women you’ve been with that have lacked talent…and who only have half a brain. Ah…shoot.” Derek glances down at his waist when his beeper goes off. “That’s my cue, I guess. You be good, Mark. And you too, Addie.” He beams at Addison and she feels the urge to slap this cheerful mood of his right off his face. “I’m on-call tonight, so if I don’t catch you before you leave for the day, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Addison murmurs a goodbye, and then gives it a minute, wanting to wait until she knows Derek has wound his way out of the cafeteria and reached the closest available elevator to ride up to his floor. She busies herself with shredding a napkin Derek left behind, and assumes Mark is being quiet for the same reason. Her face still feels hot from Derek’s characterization about the type of women Mark usually sleeps with.

“Addison? Can we -”

“I should probably go, too,” she announces, unable to look at him. It’s not even anger anymore, or at least not right now. Now it’s just melancholy. “I have an SCT resection in like forty-five minutes. I just came down here to grab a green juice, and then I saw you guys.”

“Okay. Uh, Addison…Tom said you came by last night. I’m sorry I wasn’t…” Mark clears his throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t available. I’m around tonight though, if you and your talented self and fully-functioning brain want to come over. I should be home around seven.”  
  
. .  
. .

“Why did you come?” Mark asks as he closes the door behind them. He didn’t know for sure that would be the first thing he said to Addison tonight – it was on his mind though, given that she didn’t bother to hide her irritation with him at lunch. And then he saw the look on her face when he opened his apartment door to let her in, and knows this is certainly the greeting that makes the most sense.

“What do you _mean_ why did I come?” She snaps while setting her handbag down on the nearest available surface. And then she’s walking towards his bedroom, calling out her next words over her shoulder: “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“I know _why_ you’re here, but I’m wondering why you’re here _now_ when you still look like you’re about to blow a gasket,” Mark says as he follows after her. “And I’ve said it before, but your poker face is absolute shit; you might want to work on having a neutral expression when my extracurricular activities end up being discussed in public, especially when your husband is around. Your _husband_. Addison…” his teeth briefly clench together. “You’re not allowed to be pissed that I’m sleeping with other women. I’m being careful and using condoms, if you’re worried about that – but you don’t get to be mad about this or dictate what I do in my spare time. You’re the one who’s married. And we’re not a couple. I’m not just going to sit around pining for you, if that’s what you’re expecting.”

Addison makes a face at this that he can’t quite figure out, which is frustrating, because she really isn’t all that hard to read – not for Mark, anyway. Not anymore.

“Well…” she finally replies, fingers nimbly pinching away as she works her way down the buttons on her floral print silk blouse. “I’m here now, and you know why I’m here. We might as well stop talking.” And so they do stop talking. For the most part, anyway.

“Gentle,” she hisses a few minutes later when his teeth scrape over her skin. “Don’t leave marks.”

“You really think he’d notice?” Mark says coldly. But then he runs his tongue over the pinkish spot on her collarbone, lightly soothing it. The comment from him was mean, but the act itself wasn’t intended to go that route. He knows from those closed-mouth smiles and hums and the way Addison’s head lifts to give him more access to her neck and chest that she generally _likes_ when Mark nibbles at her skin and then follows the same path with his tongue.

“Shut up.” She thinks about threatening to bite him back, but knows Mark would probably love that. And, well. She would too, honestly. “If we don’t use a condom…” she begins when Mark is readying himself above her. “You swear to me you’ve been careful? With Charlene, and whoever else I work with who you’ve been making the rounds with recently?”

“I swear,” he says, and when it appears Addison doesn’t have anything else to say about that, he pushes inside her. The mattress rasps beneath them and the air quickly fills with their sighs and groans. “And I already said that,” Mark adds, even though it wasn’t the question itself that irritated him. _She_ is irritating him. He pulls out of her without warning, and he chokes back an entertained laugh when Addison practically squawks in disapproval. “Turn around.”

“Why? So you don’t have to look at me?”

“Oh, fuck you,” he snarls back. “I didn’t say that. Just go home if you don’t want to be here, Addison.”

Her eyes narrow like a challenge. “I want to be here,” she says, rolling onto her stomach and using her elbows to push herself up.

 _Sometimes sex is just sex_ , Mark thinks as he holds her by the hips. It isn’t always complicated; it isn’t always that profound. But there is something to be said for this position. He gets to control the tempo and forcefulness and depth, and more significantly, Addison has _zero_ control. And that’s a nice change of pace, honestly.

“God, Mark,” she gasps out when he works a hand around her. “Oh, oh, _oh_.” Her legs give out beneath her, or maybe Mark’s do first; they collapse forward together. He’s tired now, and slows for a minute, but then increases his speed again and comes with a hard jolt the moment Addison reaches a hand behind her to stroke his thigh in encouragement. One of his cheeks rests lightly against hers as he moves over her, and the friction and the way her legs seem bent at a funny angle feels a little weird, a little _not them_ , but Mark still manages to rub circles against her until something between a hoarse, stretched-out scream and a shriek leaves her mouth. Addison is never exactly quiet – and he enjoys that about her, that she completely lets go and lets herself have fun – but she’s never been quite _that_ loud before. For what Mark pays monthly for this unit, he imagines the walls are thick, but he absently feels a little sorry for his neighbors in the event that he’s wrong. They’re both still gasping for breath when her body relaxes around him and he’s softened inside her.

“Okay?” Mark murmurs when he feels like he can speak again. He kisses the back of her head, and then pushes some hair off her sweat-beaded cheek. He – they – didn’t cross any lines, but this time was definitely a little rougher and a little less sincere. So Mark wants her to know…well. He kisses the back of her head again and then leans up. He doesn’t know what he wants her to know. That’s the problem.

“Yeah.” Addison twists her head around as much as she can to look at him. “More than okay. God, that was amazing. I don’t think I’ve ever…” she trails off with a blush, and Mark finishes the rest of the thought in his head with a certain degree of smugness. He rolls off her and they settle onto their backs, elbows propped above their heads to rest lazily against their pillows. “We may need to have angry sex more often,” she adds.

“We might. Hey, Red -”

“Wait. Mark, I know that…look, I’m sorry. I know you’re allowed to sleep with other women. And I know I’m absolutely not allowed to be jealous and spiteful about that. I’ll work on that…and I’ll – I’ll text or call next time to see if you’re even around or…or available.”

“I probably should have texted to tell you not to come over,” he says. “I just feel like…like it’s in our best interest to limit the amount of booty call texts. I’ll text next time though. And it’s not like…it’s not like there’s been a lot of women since I started sleeping with you more regularly. And I’m not trying to rub it in your face or anything. Derek asked me today if I’ve been seeing anyone recently, and I’m not _seeing_ -seeing Charlene, but I was with her last night, and…I didn’t want to lie to him. And I’m not sleeping with other woman to make you jealous, or to hurt your feelings, if that’s what ended up happening…or what you were feeling like.”

“I know. But if you start, I mean, getting serious with someone or it’s someone you really like…will you please tell me? I don’t want to mess anything up for you. I know I’m already a cheater, but I don’t want to be a cheater in _that_ way, too.”

“The way in which I’m a cheater, you mean?” Mark says without offense, but it produces a sad grimace from her. “Plus, come on,” he adds before Addison can say anything. “Who have I even been serious with in the past decade?”

“There’s been like two or three you’ve been _somewhat_ serious with or at least sort of ‘with.’ Peyton, for one – I guess that was quite a few years back though. I liked her for you, actually. It’s too bad she moved.”

“Yeah. Her parents lived in Colorado and they were getting older…so she wanted to be closer to them to spend more time with them. Strange concept for people who grew up like we did, right? Just imagine _wanting_ to be close to your parents,” he says, and Addison makes a noise in agreement.

“Do you and Derek still have sex?” Mark asks quietly. He half expects her to be angry at him for asking, but she doesn’t seem to be. And maybe it’s weird, but he wants to know.

“Not often,” she answers. “Maybe like once a month, if that. The last time isn’t even ringing a bell.”

“That memorable, huh?”

“Mark…”

“Sorry,” he says when she turns her head to look at him. A frown is etched over her features. “I shouldn’t have said that. But, Addison? I was just thinking that…” Mark inhales slowly. So many words are jumping around in his brain. Olivia said that feelings can’t just be turned _off_. A lot of people will have an experience where they desire someone they can’t have, but when that happens, they have to find their way past it, first by changing the situation. Namely: stop screwing your best friend’s wife (his words for that one, not his therapist’s). Mark is a hostage to his emotions at the moment though and it makes him think of that damn motto that has stuck with him all these years, the thing about laws and morals. There is a certain morality about embracing honesty, sure, but as far as actually sharing his feelings…is there a purpose? Or would it just be helping him placate his own urges? Because what does Mark expect to happen? What does he want to happen? And most significantly: what does he think would _actually_ happen if he shares what he is feeling? After all, _it’s possible you’re interested in a married woman because it’s easier than coming to terms with your loneliness and insecurities_ (therapist’s words this time).

“What?” Addison prompts when he falls silent.

“It’s just that, well. I just wanted you to know that I know this is fun for both of us, but I don’t see you as another part of my DiMaggio streak. You get that, right?”

“I really only know Joe DiMaggio in reference to his relationship with Marilyn Monroe.” She smirks in amusement. “I know he played baseball, but it sounds like he holds some sort of record based on what you and Derek were saying. And I imagine if you both deigned to talk about him, he probably wore the pinstripes.”

“Yeah. He had a 56-game hit streak once, and it’s impossible to imagine anyone ever topping that. But…you didn’t…you didn’t really answer my question.”

“Yes, Mark. I know that. I do have a fully functioning brain, after all.” There is that smirk again, and he loves that pretty, full-lipped mouth of hers, he really does. She’s not in the mood to be serious right now – maybe she never was – so all Mark can do at this point is keep the banter going. And he eases his hand back between her legs, testing to see if she’s ready again, or if she needs more time.

“And you’re also very, very talented,” he murmurs. “We should explore those talents a little more, actually.”

 _We might as well stop talking_. She said it earlier. Mark agreed then, and he agrees now. It’s easier this way. No one gets hurt. And he can’t say the wrong thing.

Or anything at all.

. .  
. .  
  
It’s not _just_ the baby thing. It’s not. Because, honestly, even though every baby-related discussion in the past three years is memorable in a Not Good Way, Derek just brings the baby thing up every few months. It’s hard for Addison to imagine a baby would even keep him happy – or _make_ him happy – once the afterglow of being a proud new parent starts to fade and the day-to-day grind of caring for someone entirely dependent on you sets in. Derek’s career is _everything_ to him. Not Addison, not his friends, not his family or future family. Maybe that wasn’t always the case, but it is now.

Derek could be a better family man; he doesn’t stay in touch with his sisters as much as he should or inquire about his nieces and nephews as much as he should. Addison is the one who handles everything, who signs Derek’s name on things, who signs his name _first_. It’s Addison who makes sure she has all the birthdays correct, and marks them on the calendar each year. She asks about the kids’ upcoming activities, even though she and Derek won’t be able to make most of them. It’s Addison, for example, who sent a locket with a cross on it for Harper’s first communion and flowers for Isla’s ballet recital. She is repeatedly lauded for getting “the most thoughtful” gifts for her sister-in-laws’ various baby showers. And Addison keeps in touch with Kathleen, Nancy, and Liz (with much more consistency than Derek does) since there are plenty of last-minute things in the lives of children that can’t be accounted for. Last summer she sent a gift basket with low-key activities and a Sock Monkey Pal to William after his emergency appendectomy. And it’s Addison who gets the Christmas presents, and makes sure cards and birthday gifts go out on time. Is keeping score like this petty? Yes. But so is Derek.

If she sat back and did nothing…would her husband pick up the slack? Probably not. And has he ever sacrificed anything for her, ever?

No. And certainly not right now, when they are squaring off in the kitchen on the fourteenth.

“What do you want from me, Addison? What _more_ do you want from me?”

“I want you to care!” She yells back, arms gesturing wildly.

It’s Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day on a _Saturday_ – not just convenient with the schedules they have, but lucky. Derek already got her flowers, even though Addison did the wifely thing of saying he didn’t have to (but still secretly wanting him to). Her husband isn’t necessarily thoughtless…he’s just not thought _ful_. Which now comes into play since Derek has just told her he needs to cancel their dinner plans – plans they set in place two weeks ago. Addison barely hears what he’s saying, so loud is the rush of fury whistling in her ears. _Patient_ … _rare procedure_ … _agreed to it_ … _experimental_ … _no one else would_ … _only three people in the world_ … _would be good press_ _for me_ … _we can always reschedule dinner_ …

It’s not like Addison hasn’t been in similar situations – she was catching up with Naomi yesterday via text, so the oophorectomy that sort of fell into her lap one time and she skipped dinner for comes to mind – but she has never _deliberately_ gone out of her way to blow off her husband. She has never once thought that anything of hers is, in the grand scheme of things, more _important_ than anything of his. Or more important than him.

They were a thousand feet in the air when Derek got down on a knee and asked her to marry him. He was nervous, so it isn’t fair to nit-pick his words or root through them in an attempt to find one more thing to be upset with him for, but it occurred to Addison recently that Derek said he wanted to spend his life with her. Not his _whole life_ and not the _rest of_ his life. The distinction, if there even is one, didn’t matter at the time, because their life was just so different then. She fit in Derek’s life once, but she doesn’t seem to fit in it anymore. Or he just doesn’t _want_ her to. It’s hard to say. Addison just knows for certain that on the day Derek proposed, when she said yes, it felt like being on top of the world and like she and her future husband were the world’s focal point all at once.

She doesn’t feel like that anymore. And she’s certainly not the center of Derek’s world anymore, either. Maybe she never was.

. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> Grey’s Anatomy, 2x07. Addison finds a place to have lunch at the top of some building that has a nice view, and she tells Derek, “It’s hardly brown bagging at the top of the Empire State Building, but they do have these cute little viewfinders.” 
> 
> Grey’s 3x04. Addison admits she didn’t know Derek was “the one.” Meredith, who is delightfully high on morphine, asks if she knew Derek was the one, and though the question definitely caught Addison off-guard, she answered honestly: “I didn’t know...I just...Derek’s the kind of guy...I just knew he wouldn't hurt me. Not on purpose anyway. Not the way I hurt him.” Do I feel like Addison loved Derek deeply and probably and conclusively – at least while things were stable in their marriage – considered him to be the love of her life? Yes, yes I do. But I can definitely see why her upbringing would make her leery to the idea of anyone being The One and generate some doubts when it comes to unconditional love.
> 
> Per Private Practice 3x23, Addison delivered Maya and was there when Maya cut her first tooth. She also recorded Maya singing “Wudolph the Wed-Nose Weindeer” and apparently played it every night on her tape deck (LOLOLOL I’m dead) for a month. Oh, and the dinner thing with Sam and Naomi: that happened in PP 4x03. It was a flashback that was connected to a present-day situation Sam was dealing with. Addison and Sam both had surgeries, Nai was getting ready to leave for their group dinner, and Derek (who made the reservation – shocking, right?) was already at the restaurant waiting for them. It was a quick scene, but it was kind of cute, and it was clear Addison 100% forgot about dinner.
> 
> Grey’s 3x12 reference. Charlene is the Peds nurse Addison caught Mark with before she came out to Seattle (Addison didn’t expressly say “caught” in the scene I’m about to quote, but it’s implied, and we know from her conversation with Derek in 3x05 that she caught Mark with someone else). “That last woman you slept with before I left New York...Charlene, the Peds nurse? Did you think that she was the only one I knew about?”
> 
> Addison, at some point during season five of PP: “I want to be the center of someone’s world and I want them to be the center of my world. I want them to sacrifice for me and with me.” And the “What do you want from me, Addison?” //// “I want you to care!” exchange is a nod to an Addison/Derek scene in 2x25 when everything in their relationship comes to a head (in front of everyone at then-SGH). I imagine we all know this one and can recall the strangled, broken way in which KW says/shouts this line.
> 
> Callbacks to previous chapters by way of muesli (Derek’s breakfast of choice) and the Derek/Mark “you sleep with duds” (paraphrasing) conversation. 
> 
> Mm-kay, probably my last update until next week. Since festive cookies are not an option, holiday gifts are appreciated in the form of kudos and comments. This might actually be my favorite story of mine/my favorite one to write to date (and truthfully, I’m not even sure how I envision it ending yet), so hearing from readers always warms my heart. Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and if I don’t have anything new by the end of next week, best wishes to all for a safer, happier, healthier, vaccine-receiving 2021. May our fics be excellent and our shows be good and our snacks be delicious and our social distancing be effective. <3


	13. Come and Crash the Surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line in the song “Wall of Silver,” by Fionn Regan.

**Chapter 13. Come and Crash the Surface**

Mark spots Addison standing against the wall a little past the nurses’ station. He wonders if any individuals filtering through the halls of St. Joseph’s with questions dangling on their lips have tried to talk to her, done that whole, “Do you work here?” thing that has already happened to Mark twice today. Maybe Derek has experienced it, too. St. Joseph’s is not the hospital the three of _them_ are still clawing their way through their surgical residency at, and they certainly aren’t wearing lab coats or scrubs right now, but _doctor_ is starting to feel more and more like an appearance and an identity than simply a profession. And perhaps other people within these hospital walls can see this on them as well.

“Hi.” Addison gives him a fatigued smile. “I’m glad you were able to come. Carolyn, Derek, and Lizzie left a few minutes ago. They’re going home to get some rest – they’ll be back in a few hours. I’m staying in the meantime, and so are Nancy and Kathleen…they stepped away to call and check in with their husbands, but they’ll be back soon.”

“So she’s okay?” Mark asks, crossing his arms and glancing towards room 308. It has turned into a weird day. He wanted to get out of his parents’ house so badly (why the hell did he tell Jenny and Everett he’d stay until the twenty-seventh?), and was sort of hoping Derek and Addison would reach out. He feels comfortable enough dropping in at Carolyn’s on Christmas Day unannounced, but today is the twenty-sixth, and the feeling that Mark can come over whenever he wants (so Carolyn has said) just feels a little feebler in his head on non-holidays. But then Addison called around lunchtime to tell him what was going on, starting with the fact that Derek found Amy unconscious in Carolyn’s living room this morning. And although Mark willingly drove to the hospital and came up to this floor, he would now give just about anything to be back at his parents’ house instead of _here_. 

“She’s okay,” Addison tells him. “Primarily thanks to your best friend’s intervention before the ambulance arrived…but she responded well to the Naloxone and she’s stable – no indication of anoxic brain damage, either. They’ll probably release her on Wednesday. I was out here making a few calls to figure out some shift coverage stuff, but I’m going to head back in now. Come with me.”

Mark clears his throat uncomfortably. “I don’t know that I want to see Amy like this.”

“You came here just to stand in the hallway then? None of us _want_ to see her like this.” Addison is annoyed with him, her tone makes that very clear, but it’s the look of disappointment on her face that causes Mark’s stomach to cramp up. “You’re like a brother to her and right now she needs all the love and support she can get. Think about someone other than yourself for one freaking second, Mark.”

 _I am thinking about someone other than myself,_ he wants to snap. _I’m thinking about my mother, Addison._  
  
. .  
. .

“Get your fine ass in here,” Mark says as he opens his apartment door. “It’s been, like, eight days.”

“Oh. Eight days,” Addison deadpans as she comes inside. “New record for going without sex, Mark?”

Well. Mark meant without _her_. Not eight days in general.

“No comment.”

Addison smiles uneasily. “So, I do have to tell you, I’ve been more slammed than usual lately, but I also haven’t been here because timing-wise...and this isn’t ideal…it’s that time of the month. My period,” she adds, when Mark blinks at her somewhat stupidly.

“Oh,” he replies. “Oh, thank God.”

“Uh…what?”

“That was a very dramatic way to share that, Red. I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something and that it was mine, or even _scarier_ , that you weren’t sure whose baby it was. And that wouldn’t exactly be an ideal scenario…”

“God, don’t even joke about that. I said it more in a bummer-filled way since when I come here, it’s usually…it’s for sex,” she clarifies. And it’s true, Mark knows. She takes what she needs, chases after the heady sensation until it’s time to leave again. Addison doesn’t spend the night, even when Derek is on-call and sleeping at the hospital, citing the constant need to be careful…which makes sense, of course. They’ll talk for a bit after they have sex, but there’s always a time limit and then Mark calls down to Carlos, the overnight version of Tom ( _Thomas_ , Mark has to remind himself now), who will arrange a cab for Addison; she’s never with Mark for more than two hours before she’s out the door again. Mark tells her to text him when she gets home, and she always teases him about this request, but it’s just common sense, so she does. And then they swipe their thumbs over their respective phone screens, deleting the existing messages between them. If they can’t see it anymore, it’s almost like it never happened.

Almost.

“Well, if sex isn’t happening, I guess you should see yourself out,” Mark teases. “I’m kidding, Red. Stay for a bit. We _did_ used to hang out one-on-one before without having sex, you know.”

 _Not often though_ , he realizes. _Maybe this is why._

“I guess so,” Addison admits. 

He gestures to the couch. “What’s kept you busier than normal?” Mark watches as she slips out of her pumps and sits down, tucking her feet up on the gray cushion. She’s so… _comfortable_ here now. 

“Mainly the quads,” she reports as he sits beside her, in reference to the infants she delivered last week. “All four are finally, _finally_ stable, so it feels like it’s the first time I’ve come up for air in a while. And. Well. Derek came home for an early dinner, but he went back to the practice to put in a few more hours. Said he’ll be back by ten or eleven. He leaves in a few days for a conference, so he’s trying to get all his ducks in a row before he leaves.”

“That’s right. I remember him telling me. LA, right?”

“Yes. He’s on one of the panels…approaches to pain management in neurosurgery. Which is good for him,” she shares. “He’s always had an interest in DBS and exploring pain-related dependency and addiction, so I think getting to dive into that is sort of therapeutic for him. It helps with the Amy stuff. And he’s going to see Sam and Nai while he’s there. But, yeah. Mostly it’s just been…today was a long day and it’s been a long week. And I know I texted while I was on my way to see if you were around, but it’s like…I was walking here before I even thought to text. I had two glasses of wine with dinner and then Derek left and then my feet were leading me here.”

Mark grins weakly. “I can tell you’ve had some wine. You’re always chattier once you’ve hit the hard stuff. And I don’t really like the idea of you walking here alone at night, you know. Especially through the park.”

“I obviously got a cab once I hit Central Park West. _And_ …” she smirks at him. _“_ I can hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much.”

“You can,” he concedes. “You’ve always been able to. I remember the first time Derek and I tried scotch – you were already a seasoned scotch drinker – we could barely handle it, and we were kind of in awe of you.”

“Look at you two now though. And it was a better first-time reaction than Naomi, at least. She was dry-heaving over the sink the second the Lagavulin hit her lips. Maybe while I’m here we can watch…oh, hey.” Addison was about to reach for the remote, but now her hand is straining towards the copy of _The Call of the Wild_ on Mark’s coffee table. “Are you reading this right now?” She asks with a grin, holding it up.

“I’m not, actually. I keep meaning to though. The other night I had…someone told me recently that she – they – hated this book. I get that it’s probably juvenile to still like it as a grown-ass man, but I still had to hide my look of disdain.” _Christ_ , Mark thinks. _That was so clumsy-sounding and unbelievable._ It’s like he’s getting _worse_ at lying lately.

“You can be honest,” Addison states, gripping the book a little tighter between her hands. “Is it…is it anyone I know?”

“No. Just a girl from a bar a few nights ago.” He studies her closely, trying to figure out the expression drifting over Addison’s face as she lowers her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She lifts her head again to look at him, and shows him a tiny smile. “I am. I was just thinking that sometimes I wish…” she inhales deeply. Color flows through her cheeks at her tentative admission: “I wish it could _just_ be me.”

“Addison…” Mark mumbles uneasily. Liquor has apparently given her boldness tonight. And his unintentional sobriety (he’s out of beer) has given him nothing.

“I know why it can’t,” she swiftly adds. “It’s okay. I’m not…I’m just saying, that’s all. I’m not asking anything of you, Mark, especially since I’m the one who is married…anyway.” She shakes her head. “Let’s change the subject. Can you -”

 _Do you ever wish it was just me?_ Mark wants to ask. But the words are stuck in his throat. He couldn’t ever actually ask her that, could he?

“Mark?”

“Sorry.” He blanches. “What were you saying?”

“Read to me,” Addison requests, pointing to his book. “Please,” she throws in. “Just for a little bit, and then I need to head back. I can’t stay more than an hour.” She hands him the book and situates herself closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Okay, but I’m not starting at the end, weirdo. I know you always do that.”

Addison laughs at this. “It’s okay. Start in the middle,” she suggests. “I read it back in December, so I don’t need to know the ending in advance like usual. Just pick a random page.”

 _The middle_. Maybe that’s fitting. Mark didn’t get the beginning. And he can’t imagine there’s any way he could possibly get an ending. But the middle – some sort of messed-up middle with phenomenal sex and the occasional deep conversation and apparently reading out loud to Addison while she’s basically melting into his side – well, that’s better than nothing, right?

“Okay, Red,” he murmurs, flipping the book open and tracing with a finger until he lands on a sentence near the start of a new paragraph. “Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly -”

“Sail blazer.”

“What?”

“ _Sailblazer_ ,” Addison repeats. “The word ‘blaze’ made me think about _Sailblazer_. That was one of the Captain’s boats when I was growing up. It was the one I learned to sail on, actually. I wasn’t a good sailor though…sailing is probably when I first realized my father is a tough man to please…but ‘tough’ is better than ‘impossible,” which is the case with Bizzy. But Bizzy actually _is_ a good sailor. She didn’t care for it when Archer and I were growing up, so she didn’t come out with us often, but after Susan died, and after – well, just to try and keep my mom occupied – the Captain would bring her out on the Sound with him, and she ended up taking to it…and now they sail together a lot. _Sailblazer_. Sorry. I shouldn’t interrupt you.” It occurs to Addison that while she certainly isn’t out-of-her-mind inebriated, she might be buzzed, especially if she’s volunteering information about her childhood. And worse, talking about her father. Oh. And Bizzy, too. Yes. Definitely feeling the Cabernet then. She cuddles a little closer, nudging against Mark’s chest until he drapes an arm over her shoulders. “You can keep going, Mark,” she mutters tiredly. “Just…if I nod off, make sure I’m up by eight, okay?”

“Okay.” Mark kisses the top of her head, hearing the quick adjustment in her breathing when long, even breaths indicate she is about to fall asleep. _The comfortable thing_. Sleepy because of alcohol or not, Addison wouldn’t allow herself to fall asleep here (if only for a little bit) if she wasn’t comfortable. “The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life,” he continues, keeping his voice low. “This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living…”

. .  
. .

“Maybe we could include some blue hydrangeas.”

“ _Blue_? Absolutely not.” Bizzy sighs in annoyance at her daughter. “They need to be classic all white arrangements. Think roses. Lilies. Mums. Maybe some snapdragons. Limit the amount of greenery. Goodness, Addison. When did your taste become so _tacky_? Do you want to go ahead and make the call so we can serve French fries at the reception, too?”

Addison brought up blue hydrangeas because she noticed some pretty ones near Susan’s cottage. Rather than explain this though, she lets the defensiveness and resentment brewing in her chest get the better of her.

“Bizzy, why did you even ask for my help if you’re going to be upset with all my suggestions?”

“I planned your wedding. The least you can do is help me plan a funeral.” 

_I didn’t ask you to plan my wedding_ , Addison thinks. _You insisted upon it._ _And the “classic all white” selection you went with for my bridal bouquet was ugly_. But of course Addison will help plan this. Of course she will, and not just because she is an almost-thirty-five-year-old desperate for her mother’s love and approval. She’s helping because Susan was a good person who is deserving of a nice send-off. A kind, thoughtful, and patient person. All the things Bizzy is not.

“This _is_ me helping. Or trying to help, at least.” Addison takes a deep, calming breath, and leans closer to look at the personalized notepad in front of her mother. “Tell me what else I can do this afternoon.”

At Bizzy’s request, Addison gives Andrea a call. Andrea, who is Susan’s older sister and the actual lead for planning the funeral. Addison gets the impression her mother doesn’t really care for Andrea, but Andrea seems perfectly pleasant over the phone. And when the two women meet for coffee the following morning, Andrea’s eyes fill with tears when Addison – the messenger – says her family would like to pay for the flowers as well anything needed for the post-funeral reception site, and anything else – really, _anything_ – that Andrea might need.

Addison notices the prescription bottle on her mother’s vanity later that night.

“Bizzy, the dosage for these is _huge_. Did one of those uppity psychiatrists who specifically caters to your crowd look the other way when he prescribed this? And how many are you taking a day? No more than what it says on the label, right?” The refill quantity – a _generous_ number of refills –on the label is also concerning, but Addison can only focus on one thing at the time. 

“Addison…” her mother sighs. “Does it really matter?” 

“Yes, Bizzy. It matters.”  
  
. .  
. .   
  
It’s wild and raw tonight. They’re close to the end now, so of course it’s reached the point where it’s all just mutual breathlessness and hurried, messy kisses anyway, but nothing about this encounter has been particularly docile. Addison’s back is wedged so firmly into the wall that she is certain she’ll wake up tomorrow with nightfall-shaded bruises weaving a trail down her spine. She locks her legs tighter around Mark’s waist and collapses forward, gasping into his shoulder and marveling at how this man can support her full weight in his arms so easily and keep his rhythm _and_ make sure her needs are being met all at once. Addison has one hand curled against the base of Mark’s neck, and her other hand is on his shoulder, fingernails digging unapologetically hard into his skin each time he slams his hips forcefully into hers. She won’t be the only one with visible markings tomorrow.

Mark sets her down carefully afterwards, and Addison is grateful he doesn’t let go right away – she doesn’t quite trust herself to stand on her own yet. His hands are still rubbing attentively over her ribs and hipbones, this time over the outside of an old Columbia shirt of hers rather than under it. Her shirt and bra are still on, which is a true testament to how badly she wanted this. The quickie of all quickies, really. Right inside the front door. They couldn’t even make it to Mark’s bedroom. Well. Actually. Addison knows that isn’t entirely accurate. _She_ couldn’t make it to the bedroom. Mark probably could have. Not that he objected when Addison came into his apartment, and immediately kicked off her heels and let her bag fall unceremoniously to the floor. “Here,” she told him, voice low and sultry. “Against the wall. Please.”

“You know,” Mark replied with a chuckle while undoing his belt, “I’d still have sex with you even without the politeness you always throw in there, Doctor Manners.”

Addison wants to tell him that she doesn’t say _please_ because she’s well-mannered (even though she is). She says it – she pleads – because she desperately, desperately wants and needs him. She’s sure that Mark knows that though, and besides, there’s been enough stroking going on without involving his ego in this, too.

Mark smiles when Addison lifts her head to kiss him. She makes a happy noise against his mouth when her lips touch his. And Mark can’t help himself. She’s happy and practically purring in his arms and earlier this evening when he suggested – as casual-sounding as he could – that Addison just spend the night rather than trek back to the brownstone (Derek landed at LAX a few hours ago), she smiled shyly and said _okay_.

He takes her face in his hands, palms warming her jawbone and thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. “Addison, I just wanted…I want you to know…” Mark adjusts himself, sliding forward to rest his cheek against hers and speak into her ear, a little too nervous to see the look on her face. Him. _Nervous_. Mark’s never nervous about anything. But then, he’s never been in this particular situation before, with this particular woman before. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says, sucking in an anxious breath as he whispers the words close to her ear.

Addison tenses in his arms. It only takes a second for the entire atmosphere to shift and it’s clear that he was _right_ to be nervous. Of course she wouldn’t want to hear this. How could he be so stupid? What they’ve been doing together isn’t supposed to be about _feelings_.

“Don’t,” Addison tells him, an edge crashing through her voice. 

“Don’t say that to you? Or just…don’t fall in love with you?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. And then she shakes her head. “Well, no. Both.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” Mark thinks it’s important for her to know that. “I didn’t expect…I know that it’s not...” he sighs when she pushes off the wall and takes a few steps away from him. “I’m just trying to be honest, Red.”

Addison shakes her head again. “You can’t just…I’m in love with my husband, Mark. And you’re…you’re not in love with me. You’re not. What you’re feeling isn’t…” she pinches her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose, taking a moment. “Mark, you might _think_ you’re falling in love with me, but trust me: you’re not. It’s just that this is different for you. I mean, we’ve been friends for a long time, and you don’t exactly embrace repeat performances with most of the women you’ve been with, so what you think you’re feeling -”

“I’m actually capable of assessing my own feelings without your input. And I _am_ capable of loving someone, Red, if you’re trying to imply that I’m not. I’m just…I’m just trying to tell you how I feel. Derek, he…he doesn’t deserve you.” 

“And you do?” Addison grinds her teeth together. Mark can see the unspoken words flashing in her eyes, bouncing off the slight shake of her shoulders. She thinks he’s ruined everything – what they currently have – by sharing this. And maybe he has. Mark thinks of his father, standing over him when he was a just a child and releasing a disappointed sigh once the paramedics left. _You don’t always have to say so many things, young man_. _This whole thing turned into a circus because of you._

“I didn’t say that,” Mark tells her. “I’m not saying that. And I’m not trying to make it weird for you or upset you…but I needed you to know. This isn’t a game to me, Addison. Having sex with you is fun, but it’s not _just_ fun, because if it _was_ just fun, if it was just a game, if it was as strictly and only as casual as all the other times I’ve had sex with different women, then I don’t…I don’t think I’d feel this way.” 

“You just want what Derek has. You’ve always been this way, Mark. You’re both so competitive with each other. You want to trump him. You want to win, and that means you’re -”

“I just _told_ you this wasn’t a game. And the way you are when you’re with me…the things you tell me and some of the things we talk about…you’re just…” Mark hesitates. It’s not fair to put words in Addison’s mouth – she’s doing it enough for him at the moment – but still, there have been…things. _Things_. The book Addison got him for his birthday was only from _her_. And she told him something about her mother – the thing with Susan – that she’s never told anyone. Sure, their brief pillow talks before she splits don’t usually entail anything _deep_ , but the conversations still feel meaningful enough to convey something beyond just friendship or friendship-with-benefits is happening here. Mark thinks this is the case, at least. He and Addison were close before they started sleeping together, but not like _this_. There’s an emotional intimacy now, and he doesn’t feel like he’s the only one feeling it. And sometimes it’s just the way Addison says his name. _Mark_. He can’t explain it, but Addison has started to say it – both when they’re having sex and she’s keening underneath him, and also when they’re _not_ having sex – in a way that evokes emotion. It just sounds different in her mouth now. “You’re kidding yourself if you seriously think this is still _just_ about sex.”

“I’m in love with my husband, Mark.”

“But he’s not in love with you. And he’s not even trying to hide it.”

The fact that Mark said it softly doesn’t make the words any less harsh. It’s cruel. And spiteful. Addison’s blue-green eyes grow glossy with tears, and it’s only seconds before she’s crying, shoving at him when he reaches a hand out to apologize and offer comfort. 

Mark watches her shakily tug up her panties and slacks, wiping at her cheeks as she scrambles around in search of her Bottega Veneta bag and heels. Her now fist-creased, messy hair – creased from his hands – falls like a curtain over her face and helps cover her tears, and Mark thinks of so many acts of unkindness that have brought him to this moment.

“Addison,” he says, voice croaky. “I…I didn’t…I wasn’t trying to…”

He is six, pulling a blue plastic chair with powder-coated legs out from under Heather Price just to watch her fall backwards.

He is ten, putting Derek’s favorite frog in the microwave just to see the looks of distress on the faces of Derek and his sisters.

He is twelve, reaching around to unplug the _Space Invaders_ machine at the arcade during the middle of a game so Robert Campanelli won’t beat his score.

He is fourteen, bringing down a wide receiver on the Fayetteville Gladiators with a horse collar tackle just because he can.

He is seventeen, bragging to his jock buddies in the cafeteria that Lainey Hess can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, fully aware she is sitting just one table over.

He is twenty-one, working his way through a string of Tri-Delt girls with overly-plucked eyebrows and not caring one bit when they start making the connection none of them are the only ones.

He is twenty-nine, pretending not to see the hurt look on Carolyn Shepherd’s face when she arrives back at St. Joseph’s and asks him to go into Amy’s room with her and he says he _can’t right now_.

He is thirty-one, cheating on Peyton Hughes the weekend she goes to visit her parents in Colorado, because he really does like her and he’s upset that she’s probably going to move there.

He is thirty-four, sending an intern to get him a bone-dry cappuccino because he’s not in the mood to teach – he’s never in the mood – and he doesn’t feel like having company when it comes to picking glass out of the face of a DV victim.

He is thirty-six, unhappily at his childhood home for Thanksgiving and yelling at Everett to get off the damn couch. _Jenny isn’t coming back. Get up._

But it all pales in comparison to this. Mark is thirty-eight years old, reducing someone he loves – actually _loves_ – to tears with his words. She yells _Let go!_ in his face when he lightly curls his hand around her wrist, trying to apologize.

The problem is that the hurt Mark caused this time wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t an action so much as it was a _re_ action. He just wanted Addison to know that he loves her. He didn’t mean for it to happen _this_ way or to hurt her. 

Mark isn’t sure she’ll understand that though.  
  
. .  
. .

The flowers Addison comes home to the following evening after work – carefully positioned near the front door by the delivery service and tucked close enough to a stone planter that she nearly overlooks them – are colorful. She likes that the bouquet features a burst of overly bright colors, even though she can’t help but think Bizzy would dub this arrangement as _tacky_ , and she certainly wouldn’t like the idea that carnations, marigolds, and dahlias are touching one another in outright defiance of seasonal growth times.

It’s obvious who they’re from, even without a personal note attached to the card marker from a local flower shop. That would be reckless. And Derek might still be out of town for a few more days, but Mark isn’t stupid. 

_He’s not in love with you. And he’s not even trying to hide it_. Addison recognized the truth in Mark’s words. She doesn’t even disagree at this point…but that didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a knife carving figure eights in her chest to hear them.

It’s wrong, but sometimes Addison wishes that Derek is having an affair, that there is another woman. It’s just that if there _was_ another woman, Addison could sort of wrap her head around why her husband has become disinterested in her, and so absent. The reality that there _isn’t_ anyone else…that means that _she’s_ not enough. And this has always been Addison’s greatest fear, and now it seems to be coming true.

Addison brings the small bouquet inside and sets it on the kitchen island with only a few minutes to spare before Derek calls. He is currently with Naomi and Sam, which is honestly the only reason he would call rather than just send a quick, check-in text. Derek probably likes the idea of getting to play the role of “good husband” in the presence of his friends, she figures.

“Those are nice,” Naomi exclaims over FaceTime, crowding close to Derek and Sam in order to share the screen. “The flowers behind you,” she adds when Addison looks confused.

“Oh, yeah. They are, aren’t they? They’re from a patient.” Addison is surprised at how easy it is to lie now. She’s had more reasons to lie since October though. Mark hasn’t said anything about her poker face in a while; maybe she’s just a good liar now.

“There’s like no male equivalent for thank-you gifts like that from a patient,” Derek murmurs thoughtfully. And then he smiles as something occurs to him. “Do you guys remember the time the old lady whose son I operated on gave me a five-dollar bill? I think it was so I could treat myself to a coffee or something, but I like thinking that she was just doing that classic grandma thing of putting a five or ten-dollar bill in a birthday card.”

“I remember. It was so cute. And you still have that bill in your wallet,” Addison replies. She likes this about Derek – it’s charming and it’s thoughtful and it’s _sweet_. That’s the thing, even now; the moments might be few and far between, but there _are_ still moments where Addison is on the receiving end of her husband’s love and attention. So because of that, how can she feel tempted to walk away, when there’s still a _chance_ things can get better?

And how could she possibly feel something for anyone else? 

. .  
. .

“Thank you for the flowers.”

Addison doesn’t appear surprised to see him. Her tone isn’t necessarily welcoming, but it isn’t cold-sounding, either. And the fact that she opened the door at all – because who else would she imagine to be on the other side of the brownstone front door at nine at night? – leads Mark to believe she can’t be _that_ mad at him still, or she is at least willing to hear him out. 

“I really am sorry, Addison. But just…can you just listen for a sec?”

“Mark…”

“I’m falling in love with you. Wait.” He holds a palm up when she inhales sharply and starts to interrupt him. He comes forward, and she doesn’t protest when he steps inside and gently shuts the round-headed door behind them. “I’m not asking you to say it back or to feel the same way. And I won’t say it again – it’s probably easier for both of us if I don’t. I just…I just needed you to know. And I’m sorry if this makes things harder for you, and if I’m unburdening myself only to burden you because I’m sort of a human disaster that way and this felt like it was eating me up inside, but I’m just trying to be honest.” 

“I…I understand,” she replies, voice faltering. “And I appreciate that you’re being honest with me, but I can’t say it back, Mark. I care about you, but I just…I don’t feel that way…but I also just don’t…I don’t know _what_ I feel.”

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _That much is obvious_.

“That probably doesn’t make sense,” Addison continues, “but all I really know at the moment is that I don’t know anything about anything anymore. And I’m married. I have a husband. A husband who may not be in love with me anymore, but is still my husband.”

“I’m sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean…it was a really shitty thing to say.”

“It was. But you aren’t wrong. Probably not wrong, at least.” She steps forward and rests her head on Mark’s chest. “I don’t think…” she sighs when he wraps his arms around her. “I don’t think I can give you anything more than this.”

“Hey, ‘this’ is fine. I just want you to be happy, Red,” he says, which is the absolute truth. And then Addison steals away the rest of his words when she starts to rub him through his slim-fit trousers, moving her fingertips slowly back and forth. He goes perfectly still, breathing heavily and letting her start to stroke him hard. “Fuck. Addison…” he pants out. “Let’s…let’s call a cab.” It’s not a question. Mark would ask normally, in a tone that simulates nonchalance, but he doesn’t think she’d be touching him like this and kissing his neck like this if she wanted him to leave by himself.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” she acknowledges. 

“No, we shouldn’t. But I can’t really focus enough to take my phone out of my pocket when you’re doing this to me…” Mark unintentionally thrusts into her hand. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Addison giggles into his neck and doesn’t make any attempt to stop. “I thought I always did that.”

“Yes, but particularly right now. Please.” He grabs at her hand and stretches it away from his body. “Sorry to press _pause_ on all the fun you’re having with driving me crazy, but please let’s just go.”

“Look who’s the one with manners now.” Addison smirks and peers up at him. “And I just meant not _here_ -here, by the front door. Let’s go upstairs.” Mark seems shocked by this suggestion. And Addison is too, honestly. They’ve never done it here before. They’ve never, ever planned to. “I don’t think I can wait that long,” she adds when Mark looks like he’s again ready to suggest they go back his place. She leans up to kiss him properly, shifting her momentum forward to press her body against his. Mark groans again at the contact and grabs desperately at the flesh behind her hips, and Addison loves it, she absolutely loves it. She thinks of what it’s like to be out on the water, how even when you’re pointed directly at the wind, stuck in irons, shadowed in the no-go zone, you’re still moving a little anyway. You’re not entirely trapped; you just have to recognize what is and isn’t in your control, and heed to the weather. The stronger the wind, the greater the pressure. “Come with me. Let’s go upstairs.”

“But -”

“Derek’s on the other side of the country,” she states insistently. “And I don’t care about the optics of this and how on a scale of all the wrong things we’ve done, deciding to have sex _here_ might just top the list. I don’t care about that though. I just care about _this_ , Mark.”

. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES
> 
> Mm-kay. General Amelia stuff, which I have mentioned in previous notes: she overdosed as a teenager and was revived by Derek. She mentioned that this happened as a teenager (I went with age 18 for the purposes of this story). Amelia then got sober and spent most of her twenties holed up in a library studying. She stayed sober for quite a long time before she slipped on Private Practice.
> 
> Subtle nods to two scenes:
> 
> \- Grey’s 2x18 (when Mark comes to Seattle post-bomb episode):  
> Addison: “I’m in love with my husband, Mark.”  
> Mark: “But he’s not in love with you. He’s in love with that intern and he’s not even trying to hide it. Why would you want to stick around for that?” (CUT TO ME SOBBING)
> 
> \- Grey’s 3x12, Addison to Mark: “You didn’t want to raise a child, Mark. You wanted to trump Derek. You wanted to win.” (Hi, I’m still sobbing)
> 
> Re: Mark going eight days without sex (except not really in this case) in this fic. Soooo, you know that scene in Titanic when ol’ Rose is rambling on about Jack now existing only in her memory? THIS IS HOW I FEEL ABOUT THE EIGHT DAYS THING. Shortly after Mark and Addison made their 60-Days No Sex Bet on Grey’s, there was a preview for an upcoming Grey’s episode (either 3x18 or 3x19), and one of the clips included a very cranky, frustrated Mark telling Addison, “I haven’t had sex in eight days,” and then Addison replies in a complete deadpan tone, “Oh. Eight days.” And then there was also a quick snippet of a super-sweaty Mark jumping rope (to keep his mind occupied). This ended up being cut from whatever episode it was intended for, and I have never been able to find it in deleted scenes. So it really does exist, but I can’t prove it (unless an absolute angel out there has tracked it down). As an aside: I slip an “eight days” joke into almost every Mark/Addison fic I write, so if someone has read all my stuff and has no knowledge of this unaired scene, they are probably just like, “jeez, this girl REALLY draws the line at eight for days without having sex, I guess???” 
> 
> Bizzy planned Addison’s wedding (mentioned in PP season 4…when Addison is planning Bizzy and Susan’s wedding).
> 
> In a scene in PP 2x17, Addison asks the bartender for “scotch, neat.” And I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting that. And my incorporation is AU, but I sort of love the idea of ADDISON maybe being the one to get Mark and Derek started on scotch and thus serving as the catalyst for their affinity for double scotch, single malt drinks. 
> 
> Also: I get that if this is being written in “current time” – more like current time-ISH since I’m trying to be vague about that – there are plenty of ride services available besides cabs, but…cabs are absolutely the sexiest when it comes to being mentioned in relation to illicit affairs. Don’t @ me on this. BTW, Mark and Addison have their own cars (mentioned during the Hamptons chapters), but driving/owning a vehicle in NYC is for the most part bonkers impractical, so in this imagining, their cars are kept in private parking garages most of the time.
> 
> (Oh and they don’t get caught next chapter, just FYI. That’s coming though, and I’m sure you knew that.)


	14. A Thirst Only Deserts Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a line in the song “Noble Aim,” by Sleeping At Last. (I can’t even tell you how many times I double-checked to make sure I was spelling “deserts” and not “desserts” :D)

**Chapter 14. A Thirst Only Deserts Know**  
  
“Can you really not even look at me right now?” Addison asks. She isn’t sure what the other phrasing options are, short of grabbing her mother’s face and yanking it towards her. _Bizzy…? Bizzy…?_ _Bizzy, can you please look at me…?_ hasn’t been working.

Addison presses down against the thin hospital mattress with her fingertips, because she can’t quite summon the courage to reach out to hold her mother’s hand or stroke her shoulder. She feels so tiny and babyish in this moment, but maybe that’s normal. Age doesn’t matter after a certain point; you are always a child when something tragic happens to a parent. And so Addison quietly chants her mother’s name like a prayer and thinks of all those times the motherly attention she so desperately wanted came from a nanny rather than her actual mother. Or the times there wasn’t a nanny present and Addison’s mother had other things going on, because being a mother wasn’t something that defined Bizzy. She sees herself as a six year-old dancing on the staircase landing of the Forbes Montgomery home. At the time Addison wanted to be a doctor _and_ a ballerina when she grew up, so there she was, twirling and twirling and twirling on the landing, spinning herself dizzy until she fell on her bottom with a dramatic thump. Before she stumbled, she had asked more than once if Bizzy could watch her. But it didn’t happen. Bizzy just didn’t – or wouldn’t – take the time to _notice_ or _acknowledge_ those clumsy little pirouettes.

_Will you stop making that racket?_ Bizzy snapped from the floor below when Addison fell. That’s what Addison remembers. But she wouldn’t change a single thing about that memory – or any of her other childhood grievances – if her mother would just look at her _now_ though.

“Bizzy? Bizzy, can you please just…can you just…?” Addison inhales deeply. It feels like her heart is about to burst wide open from worry, from the events of this afternoon. “ _Mommy_ ,” she cries out, voice cracking hard. “Please look at me.”

There it is. Bizzy finally turns to stare at her, wan-faced and pale, completely drained of any sort of emotions behind her eyes. Bizzy might as well be a ghost. She _would_ have been a ghost, actually, had it not been for Addison.

“What is it, dear?” Bizzy says woodenly.  
  
. .  
. .

March arrives in its typical no-man’s land season, both sunshine and overcast, both cold and warm, and Addison thinks of the proverb she learned at some point in school: _in like a lion, out like a lamb_.

Nothing about her encounters with Mark are innocent, meek. Certainly not _lamb_ -like. They are carnal, explosive. He lights a fire in Addison that she’s never felt before, not with Derek or the handful of lovers before him. There is such a lonely, isolating element to the affair though, because obviously Addison can’t ever talk about it. _Obviously_. That time Mark spent the night at the brownstone…it’s been two weeks and they’ve had sex since then, but that night is still constantly on her mind. The sheets – Derek’s favorites, the Italian ones with the paisleys – were absolutely soaked. And in Addison’s mind it was an electrifying feeling in that it the ultimate _fuck you_ to her unresponsive, absent husband, to let his best friend bring her to countless orgasms in their marital bed, to not object when Mark fell asleep afterwards (on Derek’s side), and to be woken up a few hours later when Mark shifted back to her side of the bed and threaded a hand between her legs. It’s cruel to be almost happy, almost _satisfied_ about that night. It makes Addison think of all the times when a particular observation or bit of gossip has come to her and she has said to Naomi or Savvy or someone she knows will not judge her, “Can I say something mean?”

But she can’t exactly tell anyone this. Or tell anyone _anything_ about her time spent with Mark, really.

The guilt is starting to roar up again though – roaring like a lion – and sometimes it feels like it’s shredding Addison’s stomach into knots. Her… _affair_. She tried so long not to assign a name or label to whatever this is she’s doing with Mark, but there’s just not getting around it. It’s an affair, and since it started last October, that will soon mean she’s been carrying on with Mark for _six months_. That number feels significant, even though technically they really didn’t start sleeping together _consistently_ until January…as though that somehow makes this more acceptable, less unseemly. It doesn’t. An affair is still an affair. This is all so messed-up. _She_ is messed up.

“See right there, Sav…? Baby is sucking on his or her thumb right now,” Addison points this out on the ultrasound LCD monitor. “So cute. I just got a picture of it. Weiss will love that one. And everything is still perfect with him-or-her.” The avoidance of pronouns when the situation calls for it with patients – Savvy and Weiss want to be surprised – is typically an easy one for Addison, but she sometimes has to speak more haltingly during appointments with Savvy and Weiss now because the urge to tell some of her closest friends they will be having a _girl_ next month is strong.

“I know you already got some good ones I can show Weiss since he couldn’t be here, but can we watch for a few more minutes?” Savvy asks while wearing a dreamy mother-to-be smile, and Addison says _of course_ and keeps the transducer rolling over her friend’s abdomen. They have time; this is Addison’s last appointment of the day, an on-purpose decision so the two women can grab dinner together afterwards. “I know these sorts of things can’t really be planned out,” Savvy adds thoughtfully, “but it would be so nice if the baby could come on a day when Derek is here, too. That way Landon-or-Hazel can get a picture with both you guys right away.”

“Derek’s schedule varies, but he’s consistently here for surgeries on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so Landon-or-Hazel should aim for one of those days if he or she wants his or her photo taken with Aunt Addie and Uncle Derek. Are those your guys’ final choices, then? Landon if it’s a boy and Hazel if it’s a girl? I like them.”

“The top contenders at the moment, but far from finalized. You really do like them though?”

“I do,” Addison confirms. “They’re such nice choices. Classic and strong.”

“You’re the only one I’ve told, since everyone has an opinion and-a-half about baby names. Especially my mom. She used to be a teacher, so you can’t spitball any names without her being like, ‘Oh, I had a Jonah in my class who I loved’ or ‘I taught a Julia who was a total brat.’” Savvy rolls her eyes as she glances away from the display screen. “Anyway, I’m not advertising our potential choices to anyone I don’t put my feet in the stirrups for, so I’m guessing you can keep a secret, right?”

_Oh._ Addison smiles tightly and nods. _You have no idea, Savvy._

“We’ve had a tougher time with girls’ names,” Savvy continues. “We threw Phoebe into the mix recently. I know it was a long time ago, but do you think the association with _Friends_ is too strong?”

Addison shakes her head. “No, not at all. It’s a pretty name, too. You guys have good taste. But I guess Baby Addison isn’t a contender if it’s a girl?” She quirks up a teasing eyebrow.

“One Addison in my life is plenty,” Savvy jokes back. “You know, I wish _you_ could be the baby’s godmother, but I wouldn’t feel right about not picking Weiss’s sister. I’m glad you’ll be an auntie though, and one day I’ll be an auntie to your kiddo. Plus, you already have a godchild, right? Your friends Naomi and Sam…what’s their daughter’s name again?”

“Maya. She’s ten now.”

“Okay. Well, one godchild is enough. We don’t want you becoming selfish, Addison.”

_Selfish_.

An unexpected noise rolls through the back of Addison’s throat and her eyes fill with tears. She carefully sets the transducer down on the nearby tray and shifts away from her friend. Savvy’s fingertips graze against her elbow, but quickly fall away; Addison is a bit too far out of her reach.

“Oh no, Addie.” Savvy sits up a little straighter. “Did I say something wrong? I didn’t…sorry, I swear my pregnancy hormones have messed with my ability to be sensitive to others’ feelings. I was fine for a long time, but the third trimester has sort of…made me a monster? Tell me what I said so I can give you a proper apology. I can’t even tell you how many people I’ve reduced or almost reduced to tears lately at work. It’s awful.”

“No, it’s nothing you said, Sav.” Addison shakes her head, and turns back to face her friend with a forced smile. She wipes at her eyes, flustered by this out-of-nowhere reaction. All because of the word _selfish_. “It’s nothing you said or did, I swear. It’s just me. It’s…” she inhales shakily. She can feel her resolve starting to weaken, because the lies and secrets are just becoming _exhausting_ to live with. “I’m okay. But, also…you’re a prosecutor. Isn’t making people cry like in the job description or something?”

“I made two people almost cry during witness prep last week – _my_ people. I can assure you, that’s not in the job description. But tell me what’s going on. You don’t seem like you’re okay. Just…we’re done here, right?” Savvy reaches for a wipe to dab at the gel on her exposed skin, and then starts to pull her ribbed sweater back down. “I want to talk to you, but preferably not while I’m… _presenting_ myself to you like this.”

Addison manages a short, choppy laugh while she helps Savvy scoot off the exam table. “If you think this is bad for me, just wait until you’re actually having the baby.” She gestures to two vinyl chairs flanking the wall of the exam room, and the two women go sit down.

“True, but…” Savvy wraps an arm around Addison, pulling her closer. “Addie, what’s wrong?”

“It’s just that…I _am_ becoming selfish. Actually, it’s worse than that: I _am_ selfish. Completely and utterly selfish. I’ve been…” she takes a deep, trembling breath. “I’ve been cheating on Derek. I’m having…God, I’m having an _affair_. The first time it happened was last October, but it’s been happening consistently since January.”

“Wow.” Savvy says softly. “I wasn’t…okay. Oh, wow. Is it with…another doctor?” This is a reasonable question, because who else would it honestly be with? For as much as Addison gets angry about Derek’s absenteeism when it comes to the state of their marriage, her life is also her work and her work is also her life most days. 

“Yes. You…you’ve met him before, actually. It’s, um. It’s Mark. Mark Sloan. Derek’s best friend.”

Savvy raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Well…” she begins slowly, because all of this is unexpected, but this detail in _particular_ feels unexpected. Savvy has interacted with Mark a handful of times over the years when they’ve been at the Shepherds’ at the same time for gatherings – Mark is attractive, yes, but kind of an ass, and definitely not Addison’s _type_. It doesn’t feel appropriate to point this out right now though…although she is sort of blanking on what _is_ appropriate to say in the wake of this confession. “At least you picked someone hot, I guess. And someone who is probably a good lay,” she finishes quietly, which prompts an agreeing laugh from Addison, but then she just keeps on crying into her friend’s shoulder.

“Please…please don’t tell anyone…I know I’m such an awful person, but please -”

“Hey, I’m not going to tell anyone. I won’t. Of course I won’t. Don’t worry about that. And Addie, you’re not an awful person, but…you are doing something awful. I wish I didn’t have to say that, but…” Savvy sighs. “There’s kind of no way around that, and I know you know that. I don’t believe you’re _doing_ this to be selfish, because you’re a very _kind_ person, but this is…this is just inherently selfish.”

Addison nods into Savvy’s shoulder. “I know. I know it is. Derek’s not…he’s not...I don’t know. Things have been bad for a while now and I just needed one weekend where…” she shakes her head, knowing she’s not making much sense. Nothing makes sense anymore though. “I don’t think that’s why this keeps happening with Mark though. I didn’t _mean_ for this to keep happening. I just…I can’t stop. I like being with him. I want to be around him. And I know it’s wrong, all of this is so freaking wrong and I swore I would never do what my dad constantly did to my mom, but I just…I don’t want to stop.”

“Do you have feelings for him?” Savvy asks quietly.

“Y-yeah. I think so, at least. I’m still trying to work it out in my screwed-up head. It’s not just about sex – Mark told me that recently, and I…I’m starting to agree. Or I’m starting to finally _let_ myself agree because I’ve been trying so, so hard not to feel anything. The thing is, if it _was_ just about sex…I could pick a random person because it would just be to scratch an itch and feel desired for a change. I didn’t pick a random person though, and I don’t _want_ to have sex with a random person. I just want to have sex with Mark.” Addison pulls back when she feels a series of light flicks land against her side. “Your baby kicking me. He or she is judging me for my life choices.”

“I think the baby is just trying to tell you how much his or her mom cares about you and that she’ll do anything she can to support you,” Savvy says kindly. “Hey, what if instead of a quick bite you come back to my place and we order takeout and talk? For as long as you want. You can even spend the night if you want. Weiss won’t be back from his dumb ass corporate retreat until tomorrow, so it’ll just be a girls’ night, and at least one of us is able to drink. Would that be okay? Or if Derek’s home and you want to get back to him then -”

“He’s not home yet. I’ll text him to remind him I’m getting dinner with you and I can tell him that…” Addison shakes her head, hiccupping sadly. “The thing is that even if Derek _was_ home, I promise you: he won’t notice me. And Mark, he – he notices. And…and…”

“Okay.” Savvy hugs Addison tighter when her sobs start to pick up volume. “Shh. Let’s just sit here for a few minutes until you’re a little calmer, and then we’ll go.”

. .  
. .

“They’re going to transfer Bizzy to Glenville now that’s she stable enough to be moved,” Archer says when he joins Addison and Derek in the hallway. Addison wonders if she should feel bad she wasn’t in the room when Bizzy’s doctor came in during rounds, but frankly, she’s been in that room enough over the past twenty-four hours. She’s _done_ enough. Let Archer and the Captain deal with it. “Probably in a few hours,” Archer adds.

Addison makes a face at this unexpected change in plans. “That seems unnecessary. Archer, did you push back at all? And why…why Glenville?”

“Because God forbid anyone find out about this,” Derek answers softly, and Archer gives him an almost approving look.

“Hey, look who is fitting into the family after all.” He claps Derek on the back.

“ _Archer_. None of this is funny,” Addison snaps, gesturing aggressively with both hands. “You get that, right? Stop being an ass.”

“I’m _coping_ , sis. And what do you expect me to do? Stand in front of the entrance and block Bizzy from going to a different facility?”

“She’s out of the woods, and Glenville is a good hospital. Small, but good. Less foot traffic. And the Captain will still be with her, so that’s good too, Addison,” Derek says. She almost hates how annoyingly reasonable he sounds right now. “Obviously we know now that we need to keep more of an eye on Bizzy for the time being, and your dad, well, I know that sometimes -”

“The eye he keeps on our dear mother is a _wandering_ one?”

“Archer,” Addison warns at her brother’s interjection.

“He’ll take care of her,” Derek finishes, clearing his throat. “I was just trying to say that it might not always be a perfect marriage, but he loves her and he’ll take care of her. So between him and the staff at Glenville – for however long she’s there – she’s in good hands.”

Addison agrees with this, but she is still glowering at her big brother, not ready to let him off the hook for that last remark. “Daddy isn’t the bad guy here, Archer.”

“Oh, back to _Daddy_ now, are we?” Archer snarls at her. He is upset now. And he usually isn’t. He’s the easygoing one, the fun one, the one who finds a way to pour humor into everything about their weird upbringing. “I didn’t say he was the bad one, Addison – I’m just saying who he _is_. And do you really think…” he shakes his head. “Are you seriously implying Bizzy is the bad one here? Because of this…? That’s pretty damn cruel of you. She’s just…she’s _Bizzy_. She’s only ever thinking about Bizzy. She didn’t do this to hurt us. Come on. We can judge and resent her for a lot of things, but I don’t think this is one of them.”

“This isn’t what I resent her for,” Addison mumbles, too quietly for anyone to hear.

. .  
. .

“I wish you’d told me how tough things were getting with Derek,” Savvy says once they have finished their takeout and Addison is noticeably more relaxed. “I could have…I know we’re both busy because our careers basically swallow us whole most days and I know this kind of stuff is hard to talk about, but still. And I – I know we text and stuff, but it’s not _quite_ the same as seeing each other in person. Seeing each other for doctor’s appointments doesn’t count in some ways, either. I’ll try harder to make sure we get to hang out in person more often. You know, other than my husband, of all the people I’m close with, you’re probably the one I’m _next_ closest with. You’re my best non-Weiss best friend, and I’m not just saying that because you now see my vagina on a regular basis.”

Addison smiles warmly at this. “I’ll try harder, too. And I feel the same way about you, Sav,” she says, knowing it’s true. Naomi will always be her best friend in the _official_ sense, but it’s hard with Nai being so far away. Derek isn’t her best friend anymore – he can’t be, because best friends don’t treat each other the way Derek sometimes treats her. And Mark, well – he’s one of Addison’s best friends too, but it’s different now. _Clearly_ it’s different now. So in many ways, Savvy _is_ her best friend. “But…” Addison gives her friend a mocking grin. “I know – ever since we met at Columbia – this is all just a long con for you, isn’t it? You’re using me to deliver your baby and then you’re peace-ing out of my life for good.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” Savvy banters back. And then she grows serious, shifting her weight on the couch as she rotates to be able to look closer at her friend. “Addie, I have to ask…you’re being careful, right? This whole thing with Mark is complicated enough without adding a third party. Or without needing Valtrex or something.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Rephrase: are you being careful or are you being as careful as you can possibly be?”

Addison smirks. “You’re such a lawyer.”

“I should be a presiding judge right now and tell you to ‘answer the question, Doctor Montgomery-Shepherd,’ since you didn’t exactly do that,” Savvy replies. “But Addie, _please_ make sure you’re being as careful as possible. I know you don’t need to be lectured about sex education since it’s part of your profession, but you’re just gonna have to shut up while I say this anyway: the pill is effective when taken correctly, but even _then_ it’s still not one-hundred percent effective. And you have a very busy schedule as well as booty calls that probably make you inadvertently stupid and forgetful sometimes because all you’re thinking about is having sex…all of which makes it harder to be perfect about taking the pill. And Weiss and I, well, you know – we were _planning_ to try, but I still wasn’t expecting to get pregnant, like, practically the second you took my IUD out. Things happen. And as my mom once told me when I was a teenager and we were talking about birth control pills: ‘boys have an equal responsibility in preventing an unplanned pregnancy, but they don’t technically share equally in the consequences or available birth control methods, so wrap it up, kiddo.’ So, all that said: please be careful.”

“I can’t imagine Bizzy ever talking to me about sex,” Addison murmurs. “She never did.”

“I wouldn’t say so, no. But, Addie -”

“I know, Sav. I know,” she interrupts. “Can I ask though…things with you and Weiss…I know appearances can be deceiving, but you seem so happy together, like you’re meant to be and you’ll always be meant to be. Do you…do you have…I mean, does he ever just…?” Addison sighs. “Sorry. It’s like I don’t know how to form words anymore. I know no marriage is perfect, so do you have any, like, complaints about Weiss?”

“Every wife has complaints about her husband, babe. And vice versa.”

“But…like…what are they? Tell me about them.”

“Are you trying to bring my marriage down with yours?” Savvy says, but quickly wraps her fingers around Addison’s wrist, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m kidding. So there’s those classic things, like he never knows where anything is in the house, he leaves wet towels on the floor, and he’s constantly pouring out drinks. Well, you’ve seen that one with him – when we have people over, it’s like they need to glue their La Croix cans or whatever to their bodies so Weiss doesn’t dump one that’s been left alone for two seconds down the sink. Oh, and when we’re talking about our respective work days, he turns into such a mansplainer about his job. He’ll mention things like bear markets and knock-in options, and then he tells me what they are in painstaking detail, like I’m a kid and don’t know. It’s sort of annoying.”

“ _Do_ you know what those are?”

“Hell no, but it’s annoying all the same. But those are all just _things_ , Addie. Things that sometimes drive me crazy, yes, but just…things. I know how I feel about Weiss and I know how he feels about me. I’m guessing _your_ marital complaints are more complicated than that?”

Addison nods. “I think Derek still loves me, but not…not in the way he should. He’s definitely not _in_ love with me anymore. When I was young and naïve, I wouldn’t have really thought there was much of a difference between the two or that it’s something worth packing your bags and moving out over…but I get it now. And Derek, he’s…he’s miserable.”

“Since you’re wise enough now to know the difference – I know you love Derek, but are _you_ in love with him still?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Addison answers. “I know that’s not very convincing, but it’s hard for me to feel strongly for Derek at the moment when it seems like he doesn’t feel that way for _me_. I’m so resentful towards him lately. And confused. And I’m sort of miserable when I’m with him, too. Maybe I just need to let him go, or offer him an out, because he would never be the one to leave. You know he wouldn’t. Not without a reason, at least.”

“And…are you trying to give him a reason? Even if it’s just subconsciously?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Weiss’s sister, Charna – you know, she remarried a few years ago. And she and Nate are so happy together. Annoyingly, stupidly happy, and it’s not just for show. And her first marriage wasn’t bad or anything…she and Jared still stay in touch a bit, actually. I was shopping with Charna a few weeks ago and she picked out a receiving blanket to send to Jared and I’m-completely-blanking-on-her-name -now; he’s remarried now too, and his wife is due in the summer. I’m just saying, regardless of what happens down the road and whatever it is you end up wanting to do…some love stories can be good ones, but they just aren’t meant to end with that whole forever ‘and they lived happily ever after’ thing, you know?”

“They probably aren’t supposed to end with ‘and then she started screwing around behind her husband’s back,’ either.”

“No, definitely not,” Savvy murmurs in agreement. “But I mean…things were good for a long time, right? You married the first boy who ever told you he loved you, and honestly – because there were some real duds there in college for a hot minute – the first one who was ever worthy of your love. And maybe things can be good again, but if not, you’re still going to land on your feet and none of the good stuff has to be cancelled out. You and Derek survived med school and your residencies together, you had a blast at your wedding – we all did – and you’re both these hotshot doctors who in some ways probably needed each other’s support to get to this point in your careers, and you’ve created a lot of nice memories along the way. You’re not just husband and wife; you’ve been friends, too. So even though things are a certain way now and if you decide you don’t want to fix it or wait around for Derek to take an active interest in fixing things, you don’t necessarily have to harbor regrets about all the time you’ve had together and the life you’ve made. It’s just…maybe it’s not meant to be a _whole_ life with Derek. Maybe it’s just a chapter, you know? That’s all I’m trying to say, and I’m saying that as someone who loves both of you and would be sad if things don’t work out. And I’m not saying it’s meant to be a whole life with _Mark_ instead, if that’s even something you want, but Addison…follow me for a sec. Hypothetically, if there were no repercussions or judgments and no one would end up getting hurt…like, if you could wave a magic wand and everything would be okay…what would you do? Would you want to be with Mark more than Derek? Maybe it’s close, like fifty-five versus fifty, but there’s no way you want them the _exact_ same amount. And you can’t have them both, anyway. Even though that would be kind of amazing, honestly. But, anyway. What would you want to do if no one could get hurt? Who would you want to be with?”

“I’m not sure,” Addison admits. Different question, same answer as before.

“Well, then I think you need to work on figuring that out.”  
  
. .  
. .

Mark says _yes_ and gives Addison a sort of adorable, one-shouldered shrug when she asks if he wants to go back to the Hamptons with her sometime soon. He can tell Derek whatever he wants regarding his whereabouts, Addison informs him – it’s not like the guys see each other every weekend anyway – and she will tell Derek that she and Savvy are having a girls’ weekend. The Hamptons weekend was Savvy’s idea, actually, and although Savvy said she wouldn’t really feel great about it, she’d willingly serve as an alibi for Addison. 

“There was supposed to be an ulterior motive to the Hamptons trip other than this for once not having to be a cross-Central-Park booty call with specific times where I leave to go back to my regular life. My friend Savvy – she knows about us – suggested we use the time to shut everything out and discuss what the hell this is we’re doing – still doing – and where we go from here, but the thing is that I’d rather just…I’d rather just be able to _relax_ with you, to escape that equally exciting and terrifying feeling of being found out. I don’t want to have to talk about what it is we’re doing…” Addison hesitates when Mark guides her backwards until her legs are pressing into cabinet drawers and her lower back is against Mark’s kitchen counter. “Mark,” she murmurs when his hands reach for the zipper on the back of her pencil skirt, coaxing it down in one smooth, purring stroke. “You’re listening to me, right?”

“I’m listening to you,” he confirms. And then his thumbs are looping under the material, dragging both the Dolce & Gabbana skirt and her panties down. “I can multitask, Addison.” He slides his palms along her bare legs. “And I’m fine with a non-ulterior motive weekend with you.”

Mark can indeed multitask – months of intimacy with him has absolutely taught Addison that – but soon all words stop and he’s on the floor in front of her and one of her legs is folded over his shoulder. It’s a little unfair, she thinks, how unreasonably good he is at this (his unreasonable amount of practice and also his enthusiasm for female anatomy in the past two decades helps, and this crosses Addison’s mind from time to time, though she always tries to push the thought away). Mark just _knows_ though. In general, but with her, too. He knows to build up the pressure slowly – consistency rather than speed for her, at least at first – and then when it gets to a point, _that_ point, he doesn’t let up. He knows, somehow, just how much Addison can take, and she is continually amazed over the fact that when her body stops clenching around him, Mark keeps fluttering his fingers and pressing his mouth against her anyway, knowing he can get more out of her. And it’s incredible. Derek always stops once Addison’s hips stop jerking and he feels her start to relax (not that they’ve done anything like _this_ in a long, long time). And so did the men before Derek. Not Mark though. Whatever Addison thought the boundaries of her pleasure were – Mark has driven her past them, and there’s no looking back now.

“Mark, I can’t…I can’t…” Addison eventually gasps out when she feels her knees start to buckle. Her hands grab tighter around the edge of the counter, knuckles tensed and white-dappled.

“Relax.” Mark’s mouth barely pulls away from the current task he’s taking quite seriously (and she’s certainly not complaining about that), but he does readjust one of his hands, gripping the back of her thigh a little tighter. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against her pubic bone. “I won’t let you fall.”

It’s not just practice and an inestimable amount of experience with the fairer sex. And it’s not self-indulgence or Mark’s staggering hubris, or it’s at least not _entirely_ or _only_ those things – it’s caring about her body. Caring about _her_ , Addison knows, which makes her involuntarily shudder. And then Mark rubs his tongue over her a little more forcefully and she keeps shuddering and then she’s tossing her head back and groaning.

“Wow,” Addison mumbles exhaustedly when Mark eventually pulls back. She slides slowly down to a sitting position, limply stretching her still-quivering legs out, and Mark scoots sideways to sit next to her, waiting peacefully while she works on catching her breath.

He lightly nudges her shoulder with his. “You’re welcome,” he says, which makes her snort.

“About the Hamptons,” she says, looking over at him. “It would have to be soon. I was thinking next weekend, actually, if that works for you. Savvy is due in seven weeks. I don’t anticipate an early arrival, but I’m her doctor and I promised to deliver that kid, so…”

Mark nods. He also realizes he didn’t bring it up earlier, so he circles back to it now: “You told Savvy,” he states, placing a hand on Addison’s bare thigh.

“I had to. I just needed someone to…” she sighs and doesn’t finish the thought. And Mark doesn’t ask her to. “Savvy won’t tell anyone,” she adds.

“Attorney-client privilege?” Mark says with a grin. He’s only met Savvy a handful of times, but he does recall what she does for a living. He remembers her joking that she’d represent him free of charge for his first divorce. _What makes you think I’m crazy enough to fall in love and get married?_ he asked her with a chuckle. Derek and Addison had laughed, too.

“More like friendship-privilege,” Addison answers. “We each get one, I guess. You told Lynette. Who still hates me, by the way.”

“My receptionist doesn’t _hate_ you. She just…she’s just not really that fond of you.”

Addison grins weakly. “Right. Thanks for that; that’s definitely so much better. Can I ask you something though?” She ducks her head when she says this, and Mark registers the expression of shyness creeping over her feature. “Can we…this is…” she shakes her head, giggling. “Sorry. I’m nervous,” she admits.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. Mark wants to lift her face back up and kiss her properly, but he gets the sense that she doesn’t want to – or maybe just can’t – make eye contact with him when she says whatever it is she’s going to say. He feels a slight jolt of fear that maybe _this is it_ , Addison’s ending things, but then he realizes this is irrational – or irrational in _this_ circumstance. Why would she ask him to go away with her for a weekend and why would she have looked so excited when he said he’d go? No. It’s not that. _Not yet_. “Just tell me, Red,” he says. “Besides, I’ve said some pretty nerve-wracking, embarrassing shit to you about my feelings recently. The least you could do is return the favor and share whatever it is you’re nervous about,” he concludes with small smile, and this makes Addison smile back.

“Okay. While we’re in the Hamptons…can we pretend that we’re _together_ -together? I don’t want to have the whole ‘where is this going and what does this mean’ discussion, but when we’re there can it just be like…like it’s just us and we shut out the entire world?” Mark notices how wide and scared her eyes look beneath her thick, dusky lashes when she asks this. “I know that’s not fair to ask, Mark, since you’ve said things to me that I haven’t said to you and we’re not a couple, but I just thought maybe…and I – I know it’s kind of cheesy and maybe -”

“A ‘just us’ sort of way sounds good, Addison,” Mark cuts in to spare her more anxious babbling, and the look of relief that settles over her features makes him want to hug her. And Addison is right, of course. It’s _not_ fair of her to ask this; it’s astoundingly insensitive, actually. But ever since last fall, Mark foolishly will take whatever she is willing to give him. “Speaking of…let’s have some more ‘just us’ time right now,” he adds, and Addison smiles playfully, clearly in agreement. “And for the record,” he adds when he pulls her on top of him, “I would like to point out that when we were done a few minutes ago, that was you sinking to the floor afterwards… _not_ me letting you fall.”

Addison kisses him after he says this, long and slow, because it’s easier than speaking and sharing. Mark didn’t let her fall. He held her up earlier, she knows. He kind of always does.

Speckles of light waltz behind her closed eyes when her lips cover his.

Addison thinks maybe she _is_ falling though. _Has_ fallen.

For him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: 
> 
> In Grey’s 2x08, we were introduced to a one-episode and never-mentioned-again character named Savvy. And I absolutely love that an entire fandom (mostly those of us with an active interest in Addison/Derek), came together and without any discussion, we all just collectively decided about said character, “This girl is cool. This girl is funny. This girl maybe has a dirty sense of humor. This girl gets it.” I have never read a fic with Savvy in it that was sayin’ otherwise, at least. YAY US. Reminder: none of my Savvy stuff in this fic is canon compliant.
> 
> A nod to the sheets: Derek’s favorite sheets were actually the flannel ones, but Addison THOUGHT his favorite ones were the Italian ones. Below is an exchange in Grey’s 2x03. Izzie was also present, and looked about ready to sink into the floor.
> 
> Derek: “You slept with my best friend in my favorite sheets.”  
> Addison: “The flannel sheets? You hate the flannel sheets.”  
> Derek: “No, I loved those sheets.”  
> Addison: “You liked the Italian sheets with the paisleys -”  
> Derek: “Would you just stop talking about the sheets?”
> 
> Other things. So, as we all know, the timeline on Grey’s (and PP, by extent) has never made sense. We all know that, and I’ve said it before: I almost respect the writers’ commitment to not getting bogged down with a timeline. Here is what I’m working off of for the purposes of this fic though:
> 
> \- Meredith’s internship started July first. Derek said around this time (within a few days of knowing her) that he’d been living in Seattle for six weeks – it was in a scene in early season one. That puts him in Seattle in late May.
> 
> \- We know he left the morning after catching Addison and Mark in bed together…well. We sort of know that. The original story was Derek caught them in bed together, walked away without saying a word, and got in the car and drove across the country. We learned from a flashback in 3x01 that Derek stayed long enough to throw Addison’s clothes and their comforter and HER outside, and eventually said he’d come back the following morning to get his things. 
> 
> We know from Private Practice that Amelia once caught Addison and Mark (that’s coming, btw). It isn’t mentioned in what sort of STATE Amelia found these two knuckleheads, but she certainly didn’t walk in on them baking cookies with enough space for Jesus in between them. Soooo Mark and Addison were absolutely fooling around for a bit before Derek caught them. My guess/belief is no more than a few weeks/maybe three months tops, but I went with a longer time period for this fic to build up more of the emotional component. Thanks as always for reading. Happy 2021, all!


	15. Down the Forest Slope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric in the song “Dirty Paws” by Of Monsters and Men.

**Chapter 15. Down the Forest Slope** **  
**  
Addison positions her handbag next to her to appear as if she is saving a spot. She’s seated towards the back of the church though and there is plenty of seating still available – Susan’s funeral is going to start in about five minutes – so she doesn’t feel too guilty for distancing herself from others, at least. 

She glances around, taking in all the details. The Bizzy ones – the hardcover guestbook, the memorial cards, and the programs with foil accents – certainly suggest _there-was-no-budget_ , but there is still a quiet, understated quality to everything. And then there are the Bizzy-funded flowers, of course; there is a standing spray of roses, lilies, and carnations on the altar alongside a large photo of Susan, and baskets filled with hydrangeas, snapdragons, and larkspurs are situated every few feet down the aisle. _A little color never hurts_ , Addison still believes as the funeral procession starts, but Bizzy’s insistence the flowers be white and nothing but white certainly wasn’t a _bad_ call.

The service itself – with scripture readings and thoughtful remarks from Susan’s sister and also from a cousin – seems to echo the peaceful beauty flowing through the church. The whole funeral really was caringly done, Addison thinks.

Honestly, the only thing missing is her mother.

. .  
. .

On Friday morning, Addison sets her suitcase in the popped trunk – she waved Mark off when he started to get out of his Mercedes to assist, even though she is also balancing a coffee carrier in one of her hands – and then joins Mark in the running car.

“Hi,” she chirps happily while placing two to-go cups – a bone dry cappuccino for him, and unfussy black coffee for her – in the cup holders. “This is my gift since I’m making us hit the road so early.” It’s true. She was in a cab before seven (headed to Savvy’s so the two of _them_ can have a weekend in the Hamptons, Derek believes), hopped out at East 80th and Second to grab coffee, and then walked the rest of the way to the parking garage where Mark’s car is.

“No kidding,” Mark answers with a sleepy-looking grin. He eases the gearshift down and backs out of his parking space. “I’ve already had two cups. But, thanks. You can take over at the wheel when I start to get caffeine jitters.”

“Deal,” Addison says, returning his smile. She’s been smiling all morning, really.

She remembers how _enthusiastic_ she felt the first few times she and Derek went to the Hamptons after purchasing property in Montauk. It felt so grownup, Addison told him, to have a vacation home. _Spoiled and excessive, not grownup_ , Derek replied with an easy smirk (and Addison didn’t necessarily disagree) when they closed on one of the first houses they looked at, the one with shake vinyl siding, a wrap-around deck shaded by pitch pines, and lots of space for future children to run around. It’s been five years since they bought the house. They were joking, then. They were happy. They are not these things anymore. Truth evolves over time, and of the many things Addison knows to be true, it is this: she and Derek now live very separate lives.

But here’s the other truth: she can’t stop smiling because she’s going away for the weekend with _her husband_ _’s best friend_. Addison’s excitement about this far outweighs all those earlier Hamptons memories with Derek.

“Mark. Um…” Addison presses her lips together as a blush rolls across her cheeks. “I’m really glad we’re getting to do this. And I just want you to know that it’s not lost on me, just how patient and…accepting you’ve been the past few months when it comes to…to what I’ve been willing to give you.” She exhales slowly. She practiced this in her head several times this morning.

“I’m glad we’re doing this too,” Mark says as he pulls out of the garage. “And, hey…” he looks over at Addison to give her a quick smirk. He can’t stay serious, because Addison is clearly feeling vulnerable for sharing this, so the fastest way to put her at ease is to make her laugh. “We’re gonna re-christen that shower again, right?”

Addison starts to giggle. “I would like that.” She reaches across the console to hold Mark’s hand, and he is so surprised by the gesture that he is sure Addison could feel how his wrist initially tensed. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “Is this okay?”

“I’ll need it back once we hit the expressway since I’ll have to start laying on the horn and flipping other drivers off, but yes, this is definitely okay.”

It _is_ okay. That’s the issue. Mark can feel the sharp coolness of her engagement and wedding rings where their fingers are joined, and he thinks back to Derek and Addison’s wedding day – it will be eleven years this June – when he and Derek were in one of the back rooms at the church getting ready. Derek wasn’t nervous, which surprised Mark. He has always assumed _everyone_ is nervous on their wedding day.

“Addison’s great, but one woman for the rest of your life?” He teased. Or _mostly_ teased. “It’s not what God intended. Especially for men who look like us. God intended for us many, many women…a staggering number of women.”

“I just hope you didn’t forget the rings,” Derek mumbled back with an indulgent eye roll.

Mark didn’t forget them. Of course he didn’t. He truly was an excellent best man.

And then Mark grew serious during this exchange, though he couldn’t say why. That never really was their _thing_ , but Derek was – always has been – his family, the only family Mark has that matters to him, so he felt like he needed to say something profound, especially since the toast he had planned for the reception would be quick and no-nonsense. “Derek…you’re lucky to have me,” he said softly. “You will never, ever find another friend as good as me, ever.”

 _Right_ , Mark thinks now as Addison’s thumb innocently drifts along the lines marking his palm. If there is anything to palm reading, he considers what someone might say about his love and life lines. And the fate line; isn’t that the one that slices through everything? He doesn’t know.

_Some best man and best friend after all._

. .  
. .

“Hurricane Amelia strikes again.” Amy rushes for a brave, self-deprecating expression when her sister-in-law comes back into the room, but the strained grin she has been striving for fades when she sees the look of pain on Addison’s face. “Oh, Addie…don’t cry. It’s okay. I’m okay. Or, well.” She shrugs limply. “I’m not. I’m super not okay, but I _will_ be okay again.”

“That’s great, but I’m going to cry anyway,” Addison replies with a tense smile. She comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, taking Amy’s hand in hers and being mindful not to disturb the cannula on the back of Amy’s hand. She uses her other hand to pat at the moisture clinging to her cheekbones. She has been in and out of this hospital room at least four times now, but each time seeing Amy like this still feels like the first time.

“Yeah. It seems like everyone is. Even my mom and Kathleen, and those two, like, _never_ cry. Especially Kathleen. Derek hasn’t…” Amy swallows, grimacing at how much effort it takes and how sore and scratchy her throat still feels. “Derek hasn’t come in to see me yet.”

Addison shakes her head. “He has. He has, Amy. You’ve been out of it. And he’ll be back soon. He went home with your mom and Liz to get some rest. Kathleen and Nancy are here...they’re calling their husbands to check in on the kids, and I think they’re going to grab a quick bite at the cafeteria. And Mark just got here, too.” Addison briefly glances towards the closed door. “He should be in to see you soon. I think – I think he had to take a call first.”

“Addie? Addie?” Amy begins, and Addison tightens her grip on Amy’s hand when her sister-in-law starts to breathe a little heavier; she is clearly still stuck on the Derek component. “Will Derek forgive me? The doctor told me he was the one who…who had to…”

“He’s not mad at you, Amy. None of us are mad at you. We’re just worried. And we love you. We want you to be well.”

“Do you remember Casey Prince? My crush when I was thirteen – you saw him when you took me to get my ears pierced – who I later told you was a total innocent and goody two-shoes? Well, not such a goody-goody after all. Towards the beginning of spring semester, he offered me a pill. And none of this is on him…it was me who got myself to this point, but I’m just telling you…he gave me a pill and I took it,” Amy explains, voice croaky. “And the pill took things _away_. It took away the pain. It took away the misery. Because I miss my dad and I think – I also think there’s something beyond that, just something that’s maybe fundamentally wrong with me. And Casey…Casey and other people – they said it wasn’t real, but it was real to _me_. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” Addison nods slowly. “I know it was real for you.”

“Because I was happy and in a bubble where grief and sadness and loneliness couldn’t poke through, and how could that _not_ be real? But it’s just…when I was gasping for what I thought were my final breaths and Derek was trying to save me, I didn’t think dying happy was better than living sad…but I loved those pills.” Amy’s eyes fill with tears. “I _still_ love those pills. But I know that I can’t keep…I’m just…I’m just so tired.”

“I know you are. Just rest now. Close your eyes and rest. I’ll stay here with you. We’re going to get you help and get you through this.”

“I didn’t mean…I just wanted the pain to stop, Addie. I wanted to be _free_.”

“I know, Amy. Try to sleep now,” she murmurs, reaching out with her free hand to stroke Amy’s limp hair. It occurs to Addison just how many times in this short window she has said _I know_ , probably rendering the words utterly meaningless. She gets what her sister-in-law is saying though. The need to be happy, the need to be free. Just free in general, and free from pain – everyone wants that, don’t they?

Addison understood it then, just more as an outsider-looking-in, someone capable of empathizing with a young lady who experienced a significant loss and hasn’t had an easy life because of it.

It took years for her to come to find a self-destructive thing of her own though.

. .  
. .  
  


“This is new.” Mark’s palms press against Addison’s bra-covered breasts when she finishes unbuttoning her shirt and shrugs it off. He lightly squeezes her through the plum-colored material, and she inhales sharply when his thumbs travel over the lacy scalloped edges, raising gooseflesh along her arms and the top of her breasts. That or she’s just never worn this one when she’s getting naked with him, Mark muses. He’s pondered this before, if Addison is discerning when she picks out undergarments, if she maybe wears specific things for him or steers clear of items she wears around Derek, or if she doesn’t give a crap either way and Mark is just overthinking it. It’s weird, the affair-places his brain has taken him to over the past few months. And he’d like to _not_ overthink right now – or think at all, really – because he’s stretched out on the chaise part of the leather sectional and a slowly-getting-undressed Addison is currently straddling him.

“Mm-hmm,” she confirms with a cheeky smile. “Matching panties, too. Do you like it?”

“I love it. And I’m sure I’ll love the panties part, too. Leave it...” Mark says when she reaches a hand behind her back to undo the clasp. “Just for a sec,” he adds when Addison arches an eyebrow in surprise. “God…” he can’t help himself, and Addison doesn’t shy away from the occasional compliment as much anymore, so he doesn’t exactly hesitate: “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Addison beams and leans closer, which pushes her chest more firmly against his hands. “Not one of my usual colors. I’m…” her giggle shifts into a gasp when Mark brushes his lips to her neck. “I’m sort of predictable with lingerie.”

“Nothing wrong with being predictable and knowing what you prefer. I like the black,” he murmurs, continuing to move his lips along her neck. “And the white.” He switches to the other side now, and _God_ , it feels so good that Addison thinks maybe Mark’s lips were _made_ for her body…which is exactly why her plan to get sandwiches from her favorite local shop shortly after arriving in the Hamptons has been delayed indefinitely (she’s not unhappy about this though). And then Mark is paying attention again to the side he started with, and she sighs her appreciation when his tongue licks a long, slow stripe over her skin. “And the functional nude or whatever,” he adds, words warm against her jawbone.

Addison starts to laugh. “ _Functional_ nude? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that listed as a La Perla color.”

“That’s why women wear that color though, right? Since it matches your skin when you wear light-colored clothes and all that?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. What’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” Mark answers automatically. Hell, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think about that sort of thing. He definitely likes the color of Addison’s hair though.

“Next time I’ll get red lingerie then.” She grins mischievously. “So you have a thing for redheads and the color red, huh?”

“I have a thing for you,” he states, and Addison doesn’t stiffen or appear uncomfortable with this comment. Her smile widens at it, actually, and Mark wasn’t really expecting that. It drifted a little more into _feelings_ territory, after all. “But it’s more likely that I’m just an easy mark for evil redheads,” he adds, and Addison laughs again. And then her lips are against his and her tongue darts out to stroke over his. The pace is unhurried at first – they do have all weekend, after all – but once Addison lowers herself in his lap a bit more to grind against him and Mark’s hips rise to tease her back, he reaches a hand behind her to unclasp her bra (he does love it, but he loves her bare breasts more). He’s not thinking anymore, but the sensations – oh, he’s so aware of the sensations and how great it always feels with her. His thumbs flick over her hardened nipples and she’s moaning against his mouth in between kisses. The ends of her soft hair are tickling his collarbone.

Addison shifts away and laughs when Mark desperately grabs at her retreating flesh, but then she’s sliding out of her jeans and kicking them away and _okay fine_ , it was worth the brief separation, because now she’s only wearing panties and her hands are trailing down his stomach. It’s getting faster now. Mark is rocking his hips a little impatiently beneath her, but then her slender hands are undoing the button on his pants and coaxing the zipper down and then she’s reaching inside his pants and he can’t imagine being any harder than he already is and somehow in the middle of all this he thinks he hears the grating-sound of a doorknob, but just the thought of Addison touching him is -

“Amy!” Addison squeals loudly when she turns in shock towards the open front door and recognizes the unexpected guest. She ducks to the side, sort of wedging herself between Mark and the back cushions, and she throws an arm up to cover her exposed breasts. Mark is too shocked to really do anything, but he definitely avoids looking at Amy. “Oh my God. I…I…” Addison stammers out. “What are -”

“I’ll wait outside,” Amy answers quickly. And then she shuts the door. Hard. And now Addison is scrambling to get dressed – she doesn’t button her shirt correctly, she realizes, but who cares because what’s one more cliché in her life really, and holy shit, why does button positioning even matter when she just got _caught_. And then she hisses at Mark to put his shirt on and _stay inside_ while she goes to talk to her sister-in-law.

“Unbelievable,” Amy snaps when Addison comes outside and shuts the door behind her. Amy’s arms are crossed and she’s facing forward, not making eye contact. “Un-flipping-believable.”

“Amy, I’m so sorry you had to…it was just this…it was just this one time…Mark just…he was here and -”

“Don’t,” Amy interrupts. “That’s what people always say. About it being one time. About the person just _being here_ and it being something that _just happened_. You’re like a sister to me, Addie. Better than the ones I have, actually. You’re a sister whose nose I want to break at the moment, but you’re a sister all the same. I don’t want to know how long this has been going on, but please don’t lie to me and act like this was the first time. In my experience, first times with someone you’re not supposed to be with are quick and frantic. That…that wasn’t like that. It was…” Amy sweeps her thumb over the space between her eyebrows. “I don’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t frantic. So don’t tell me this was one time. I won’t believe you.”

“I…okay. Just. What…um.” Addison can see Amy’s car on the other side of the street, and she notices a scruffy-haired guy in the passenger seat looking directly at them. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve put in way too many hours recently and decided I was due for a little time off. That’s Hunter.” Amy has finally turned to look at Addison, and notices her staring at her Toyota Corolla. “We’re dating. He convinced me to come meet his parents – they live in North Hempstead. And on Tuesday we kinda felt like we needed a break from Ron and Laurie, and I was talking about your place in the Hamptons, soooo.” Amy grins sheepishly, even though _clearly_ , she’s not the one who should be ashamed right now. “I still have a key from that time I met you guys here for a few days before I started my last year of med school. We really were just in and out, just here for a night...but I stupidly forgot my watch so we drove back today to get it. I thought you guys usually parked in the driveway here, not in the garage, but…apparently not. Otherwise I would have knocked, if I’d known you and Mark – or the guy you’re actually supposed to be with, perhaps you know him, his name is Derek – were here.”

“Amy -”

“Wait. Obviously if anyone owes anyone an explanation right now, it’s not me owing _you_ one, but step nine of AA is permanently lodged in my head, so let me finish real quick. I know I could have just called and asked if I could come here for a day – I _should_ have done that – but I kinda figured Derek would say no…you know he sort of just…” Amy shrugs, her tone sounding a touch regretful and sad underneath the half-smile she is showing Addison. “He probably thinks I’ll come here and rub two Percocets together and blow up the house or something.”

“He knows you’re sober, Amy. We both do.” 

“Right. Well, anyway. Sorry. It wasn’t appropriate to just show up and practically defile your master bedroom having sex with my boyfriend…though clearly these walls have seen more inappropriate things lately. I won’t do it again though. It’s not my home to just barge into. And I remembered the alarm code. It’s your wedding month and year. You know...your _wedding_. Not sure if you remember that?”

“I…I do,” Addison replies, and then cringes, hating her phrasing. None of this should be happening, precisely _because_ of the _I do_. “Amy, you have to know I didn’t mean for this to happen; I would never want to hurt Derek. I…I didn’t mean…are you going to tell him?” Her voice rises with the question. Addison knows she can’t ask Amy _not_ to tell. She can’t _beg_ her not to, either; it’s not fair to Amy. But Addison needs a little time to prepare for this conversation with Derek. She hasn’t allowed herself to get to this point – to even _consider_ telling her husband that she’s been unfaithful, that she’s betrayed him, that she’s starting to have feelings – big feelings – for someone else. “If you can just give me a few days, I’ll Derek I’ve been -”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Amy cuts in with a hurried shake of her head. “It’s not my place. I don’t feel good about keeping it a secret, but…come on, Addie. I’m not exactly in a position to judge anyone. I won’t say anything. Don’t make a habit of this though. I know Derek can be an ass and I get the appeal of Mark because _damn_ , he has a face like an angel and probably has hips like the devil, but…” Amy shakes her head again. “Still. If you don’t want to be with Derek anymore, you have to grow up and tell him. This is cruel. You’re not this kind of person.”

“Thank you, Amy,” Addison replies haltingly. _I am this kind of person now though, aren’t I?_ she thinks. “And I…I know. Believe me; I know. It’s just been hard. That doesn’t justify cheating on my husband, but it’s…it’s really hard.”

“We’ve been out here for a few minutes now. It’s probably not anymore.”

“Amy…”

“Sorry,” Amy replies with a smirk. “You know I don’t have a filter. I’ll just wait out here while you get my watch and then I’ll be on my way. It’s on the nightstand in yours and Derek’s room. And Addie…you talked to me once about birth control…do I need to talk to you about it now?” She shrugs when Addison breaks eye contact, uncomfortable. “I’m just trying to make sure no little ginger with Mark’s ego ends up being the result of this. Oh also…can you actually call me Amelia from now on? I’m thinking about going by Amelia. With family, I mean. Everyone at work knows me as Amelia, not Amy.”

. .  
. .

“Have you seen Bizzy?” Addison asks when she finds Archer in the sitting room. He was summoned from Boston – his current home – for Susan’s funeral, which is tomorrow. He hasn’t seen Susan in years and doesn’t quite feel the same sense of jump-how-high that Addison does when it comes to pleasing their parents, but he still came straightaway when Bizzy called to notify him of the date and time of the service.

“No,” Archer responds. “But to be fair, I haven’t exactly been looking for her.”

“She’s not upstairs.” Addison says this more to herself than to her brother. She already checked the entire second floor, the dining room, Bizzy’s office, and the sunroom. And she can see the garden from the sunroom – no WASP-like, judgmental and withholding movement out there, either. “And she didn’t mention going anywhere this morning…and we both know she didn’t go sailing with the Captain…”

“Maybe she went down to the basement to get something,” Archer suggests. “It’s liquid o’clock somewhere, right?”

“Looks like it’s liquid o’clock right here, too.” Addison stares pointedly at the highball glass in her brother’s hand. “I know it’s always rough having to come here, but jeez, Archie. At seven in the morning?”

“Well, like you said, little sis: it’s rough being here. Where’s your not-better-half?”

Addison rolls her eyes at this description. “Derek just got out of the shower. He’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay. So…do you want me to…?”

“No, you stay,” Addison says. “I’ll go check the wine cellar.”

. .  
. .

Mark waits in the guest room, perched on the bed and staring at his knees. Addison came back in at one point, rushing down the hall and mumbling something about a watch as she went into the master bedroom, but then she went outside again. But now she’s back – pale, teary-eyed – and something in her body language indicates it’s just the two of them again, that Amy has left.

“I…I feel…” Addison’s voice breaks apart as rough, aching sobs start to spill from her lips. Her hands fold against her stomach. “I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Mark quickly helps her to the bathroom connected to his bedroom. Addison sits down near the toilet, and he settles himself close by, back against the nearest wall. After a few shuddering sobs but no gagging or dry-heaving, Addison scoots over to sit in Mark’s lap. He folds his arms around her and her head finds its way to his shoulder, and he listens while Addison stammers out bits and pieces of her conversation with Amy.

“She won’t tell anyone, Red,” Mark says when Addison starts to settle down, her sobs having died down to whimpers and drained, sniffling bursts of air. “She said she wouldn’t and just...it’s Amy. That’s not really who she is, you know? You know she won’t tell anyone, especially Derek. It’s gonna be okay.” He smooths a hand over Addison’s face, wiping at her warm, sweat-beaded forehead and eyebrows.

 _He’s right and he’s wrong_ , Addison decides. _Amy_ _– Amelia –_ _won_ _’t tell anyone. But it’s not going to be okay. How could it be?_

“I wanted this weekend to be perfect, but obviously…obviously this is what I get for cheating on my husband and being an adulterous bitch. When Amelia…before she said she wouldn’t say anything…I tried to imagine how I would even begin to have this conversation with Derek. It’s ridiculous-sounding, I know, but I haven’t allowed myself to think about telling him the truth. Or what…what I would even _say_ , because how could I even begin to explain…” Addison shakes her head and rubs at her tear-dampened eyelashes. “And telling Derek would mean...I don’t know. He wouldn’t stay with me, if he knew this was an ongoing _thing_ – and that’s not to say he would stay if I told him it just happened once, but I think we can both agree there’s more of a chance he’d be willing to try to work things out if it was just a one-night stand. But mostly I just…if I told Derek, that would mean this would have to be over and I don’t – I don’t _want_ it to be over, Mark. I like getting to be with you, even though I know it’s not…it’s not…” she starts to cry harder again. “Don’t you feel guilty that Amy – that Amy…?”

“Yeah, of course I do. I feel guilty a lot, Red. I know my moral compass can be screwed-up sometimes, but I still feel…” Mark hesitates when she starts gasping into his chest. “Hey…slow breaths, okay? Slow. _Slow_.” He works a hand gently over Addison’s spine to comfort her, and occasionally murmurs reminders to breathe slowly.

“I really did want this weekend to be perfect,” Addison whispers once she’s calm again.

“I mean…yeah, this was one of the most unideal things to ever happen, but realistically, you know things between us will _never_ be perfect. They can’t be. Not like this, anyway. But Amy isn’t going to say anything, and we can still try to enjoy the rest of the weekend. Right?” Mark brushes his lips to her hairline. “I hate seeing you like this though…seeing you cry.”

“I don’t cry that often,” she replies in a small voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not a problem or anything. But I’m sorry I can’t fix it, and I’m just…sorry for a lot of things, I guess,” Mark states, looking down to catch her gaze. He doesn’t ever feel the urge to look away when Addison gets upset. He has never experienced that before. He’s always had such a distrust and distaste for intimacy, and for any unanticipated displays of emotion. Not with Addison though. He thinks this is part of what love means, and it scares the hell out of him.

“Me too. A lot of things for me, too. But this is helping. You give nice hugs.” Addison sits up a little straighter. “I can get up now. I’m not going to throw up.” She considers that maybe this is just how she will feel from now on. Sick without being sick. Even when the feeling isn’t prominent, it’ll still be a shadow that ghosts along beside her.

“Okay, good. How about you get in the shower with me?”

Addison frowns. “I’m not really in the mood for re-christening activities right now, Mark…”

“That’s a one-hundred percent fair assumption, but it’s actually not why I suggested it. I just meant you’re kind of clammy, and you’re shivering, too. Let’s take a quick shower and get you warm. And then you can stay here and relax and I’ll go get sandwiches from that place you mentioned.”

Addison smiles slowly and climbs out of his lap so they can get to their feet. “They come with these huge pickles on the side,” she says while Mark turns the shower faucet on. “You’ll like that.”

“I will indeed. And then we can revisit…” Mark has already started stepping out of his clothes (which prompts Addison to do the same), and of course he times it perfectly so that his boxer briefs are coming down just in time for him to the finish the thought: “The subject of _other_ huge pickles later today.”

“You’re so gross.”

Mark reaches out a hand to test the temperature, and when he deems the water hot enough, he walks into the shower. “And yet I’m not the one who is kind of a sweaty mess right now.”

“I’m still…” Addison sniffles and offers him a weak grin when he takes a step back so she can join him under the spray. “I’m still desirable and wildly attractive. Even when I’m a sweaty mess.”

“You’re not gonna hear any counterargument from me about that. And hey…you’re okay,” Mark circles his arms around her waist and pulls her close. Steam swirls at their feet. And maybe Addison _is_ okay; she can truly almost believe Mark – believe anything – when he holds her like this. “You’re okay,” Mark repeats, and she nods faintly while he reaches for a near-empty shampoo bottle.

Addison can see what he’s grabbed off the caddy, but she still smiles in surprise when he moves her out of the immediate path of cascading water, and she murmurs a soft _oh_ when Mark squeezes a dollop of shampoo onto his palm and starts washing her hair. His fingers are soft and soothing as they graze over her scalp and work through her damp strands.

“Thank you,” she says, her smile expanding. “You’re so sweet. And…you’re right; we still have the rest of today. And the rest of the weekend. It’ll be better.”

“It will,” Mark says in agreement. He moves her back under the water and lifts her chin with his index finger so the shampoo can begin to make its descent. “It’ll be good; you’ll see.”

“Yeah. The thing is that I…I _always_ feel good when I’m with you, Mark. Even when I feel bad, even when I feel guilty, even when I freaking get _caught_ by my sister-in-law, I still…” Addison shifts a little, pleating her fingers against his shoulders and resting her head on his water-layered chest. “When it’s just us…I always feel good when I get to be with you.”

Mark wonders if she can feel how much his heartbeat quickened when she shared this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! **References below:**
> 
> Grey’s 9x01 flashback scene between Mark and Derek, talking/getting ready before Derek and Addison’s wedding:
> 
> Mark: “Addison’s great, but one woman for the rest of your life? It’s not what God intended. Especially for men who look like us. God intended for us many, many women…a staggering number of women.  
> Derek: “I just hope you didn’t forget the rings.”  
> Mark: “Derek…you’re lucky to have me. You will never, ever find another friend as good as me, ever.”
> 
> And also, Grey’s 3x25, because apparently Mark really DID feel he was a good best man, and didn’t think to, you know, READ THE ROOM when bringing this up to Derek down the road:
> 
> Mark: “…and how’s the best man? Up to the challenge? I was an excellent best man.”  
> Derek, speaking to Burke: “You know, the worst case scenario is I sleep with your wife in ten years.”
> 
> Nod to Grey’s 3x02: Addison tells Miranda (aka AMANDA in this scene omg) that she is desirable and wildly attractive. There was also a nod to a PP season 4 episode where, when Amelia comes back from Seattle (after Derek was shot), she tells Addison she slept with Mark, and Addison makes a comment about Mark having a face like an angel and hips like the devil (I thoroughly enjoyed that line, but that whole scene was awkward, honestly, especially the body language between Addison and Amelia…feel free to share this sentiment with me). And there was also a nod to Mark’s preference for bone dry cappuccinos in this chapter. 
> 
> Amelia (Amy) reminders (cut to narrator voice saying, “previously, on darlingwrecks’ notes…”):
> 
> \- Amelia overdosed as a teenager on prescription pills and was revived by Derek. Part of what Amelia said to Addison is pulled from the episode in PP where she went to rehab (the line about it not being real and gasping for her final breaths...you can fire up the ol’ Google if you’re so inclined to know the exact wording.). 
> 
> \- Amelia once caught Addison and Mark, and she kept their secret. I think Addison and Mark are kind of dummies about a lot of things when things get steamy between them (LOCKING DOORS FOR INSTANCE), and as I said last chapter, we don’t know the when/where/how compromising it actually looked/etc. of Amelia catching them. I’d like to think it wasn’t at some sort of giant Shepherd gathering (e.g., Christmas or something), but some sort of fluke, oh-I-guess-I-can-see-how-that-might-happen thing like I wrote for this fic. And in the scene in this chapter where Amelia walks in on them, what Addison initially said to Amelia and Amelia’s response was a nod to the flashback in Grey’s 3x01 when Addison is scrambling down the stairs after Derek and tells him, “It was one time. I know that’s what people say, I know that’s what always gets said, but it…I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. [Mark] was just here!” (That’s coming, btw)
> 
> \- Amelia wears a watch that once belonged to her father. It’s very important to her (important enough that even Addison knows its significance). And Amelia did say at one point that Addison was a better sister to her than the ones she has.
> 
> \- Amelia completed her surgical residency at Johns Hopkins (unclear if she completed her to neuro fellowship there as well before working as a teaching fellow at Harvard Medical School). And she went by Amy as a child/teen/young adult, but prefers Amelia now.


	16. The Air is Perfect, Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric in the song “April” by Sleeping At Last. This was one of my favorite chapters to write so far. 
> 
> Please note that this chapter comes with a trigger/content warning: it contains references/descriptions of self-harm, a suicide attempt and several discussions in its aftermath, and mentions of blood in a non-surgical way. Take care of yourselves, kiddos, and always find a way to use your voice when you need help.

**Chapter 16. The Air is Perfect, Tonight**

Mark crawls into bed first. He shifts onto his side and faces the door of the guest room, waiting for Addison. She is one room over, brushing her teeth and getting changed. When they got to the Hamptons this morning – before everything took a dramatic turn due to the unexpected landing of Hurricane Amelia – they didn’t think twice about the arrangement when it came to their belongings: Mark brought his suitcase to the guest room, and she set hers in the master. But the concept of separate belongings is getting murkier, because now Addison is walking into Mark’s room in a Subway Series shirt (Mark tries not to think about the fact that when he purchased this overpriced, sort-of-gaudy shirt at Game 2, Derek was with him). A few weeks ago, Addison spilled some wine on her blouse – or rather, Mark accidentally knocked into her, which caused her to spill the wine – so he lent her this shirt. There was no cause for alarm or frantic cleaning, because Addison knew with absolute certainty Derek was going to be working late; Mark imagines she walked boldly into the brownstone wearing his shirt ( _still a little stupid regardless of Derek’s absence_ , he feels) and tucked it in the back of one of her drawers with plans to return it later. And then Mark sort of forgot about it. 

_She’s wearing it on purpose, right?_ he thinks as Addison joins him under the comforter. _For me?_

“We don’t have to have sex tonight, if you’re not feeling it,” Mark says when she cups his cheek and leans in to kiss him. The shirt – which swallows Addison’s slender frame – and flannel pajama bottoms don’t send off an alarm that she’s _in the mood_ , and she also just looks tired. Women never end up faking it with Mark as far as he can tell, and Addison would certainly enjoy herself once they get going, but he still knows what a forced expression of anticipation looks like. “It’s okay if you just want to sleep,” he continues when Addison drifts back on an elbow, regarding him with mild curiosity. “It’s been...well. It’s been a _day_.” 

Addison offers him a tiny smile. “Yeah, it has been. Just sleeping sounds kind of nice,” she acknowledges. Mark smiles back; he’s almost relieved, actually, because he’s tired, too. He rolls onto his back, and since they’re still close to one another, it doesn’t take anything more than a slight tug on the material of Addison’s shirt – _his_ shirt – to coax her forward so that her head is on his chest. “You’re cuddling with me,” she says quietly when Mark’s arms surround her, one dipping under the arch of her neck to frame her shoulder blade, and the other grazing against her elbow when she settles in and gets more comfortable. 

Mark has admittedly been a little curious about this _sleeping_ thing ever since Addison asked him if he wanted to go to the Hamptons with her. They have never spent an entire night together; they are careful about covering their clandestine footsteps so Addison can continue to play the role of disgruntled-but-faithful wife. The one time they _did_ plan for Addison to spend the night, Mark told her he loved her, which led to an argument and to them decidedly _not_ spending the night together. He went to the brownstone the following night and apologized…okay, so technically that time he _did_ sleep over, Mark realizes, but they didn’t do much sleeping, so he isn’t quite convinced that actually counts. And it wasn’t _planned_ , at any rate.

He thinks he could get used to this though.

“I do have capabilities in the sack that go beyond sexual ones, you know. And I’m also just...” his voice becomes serious. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re doing okay.” 

“I am.” Addison moves her fingertips along his shoulder. “Thank you though; I think I need this right now. But...re-christening the shower isn’t off the table, just so you know. We still have tomorrow and like half of Sunday.”

“And just so _you_ know...whatever you’re plotting sexually for tomorrow morning isn’t going to distract me. I still want to jump in the ocean.”

Addison’s eyebrows rumple together in opposition. “It’s too cold.” 

“Sounds like a hot shower with a really hot redhead will be the perfect post-swim activity then.”

. .  
. .

When the Captain comes out of Bizzy’s room, he repeats what Addison, Derek, and Archer have been discussing: they’re going to transfer Bizzy to Glenville…in about an hour. The timing is new though; Addison assumed it would be a few more hours. 

“I need to leave in like twenty minutes,” Addison says. “I can meet you guys there afterwards; I’m not going to the reception, so I shouldn’t be long…” her voice falls away and she starts to clamp down on the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t want to _not_ be here when Bizzy is transferred, but she also doesn’t can’t miss Susan’s funeral. _Someone_ from this family has to go, and neither the Captain nor Archer have made mention of it in the past twenty-four hours. While Addison was getting dressed this morning – head-to-toe black – she debated what lie she would tell Susan’s sister and Bizzy and Susan’s mutual friends (though Addison suspects they didn’t share a lot of mutual friends) when they asked about her mother’s absence. _Food poisoning is probably the easiest one_. _Is…is that why this happened before the funeral?_ she found herself thinking. _Not just because of not being able to face the grief, but also so Bizzy wouldn’t have to feel like a stranger at the funeral of someone presented as only her friend?_

Addison knows on this day with absolute certainty, even though most of the time in the future she’ll shy away from said certainty because if Bizzy hasn’t declared it outright, then there isn’t actually _tangible proof_. And more than that, Addison doesn’t want to allow herself to think about the fact that everything she thought she knew about her childhood was probably a sham. It disrupts too many things about life, love, marriage, and relationships. 

“So are we really not going to discuss why this happened? Or are we just waiting until we’re, like, in a safe house where it’s Montgomerys only and we can sign non-disclosure agreements?” Addison asks snappishly, not able to help herself. Her gaze flickers between her father and brother. Derek has gone to get her a coffee and then he’s leaving. Her husband, who will probably thoughtfully grab something for her to eat even though Addison didn’t ask, and held her last night while she fitfully slept…in the end, surgery always steers him away. Addison has begun to realize over the past few months that Derek is not the man she married anymore. And people change, of course. She and Derek aren’t so young anymore; they are thirty-four and thirty-five, respectively. But Addison knows she hasn’t changed so much that it means her desire to chase after the next big surgery, the next clinical trial, the next medical-anything, comes before her marriage. Addison and Derek came to Connecticut to support _Bizzy_ by attending Susan’s funeral…but now Bizzy cannot attend the funeral, which apparently…changes things. And then Derek checked his work cell even though he promised he wouldn’t, saw a message from a colleague, and that was that. 

Archer shrugs at his sister’s question. “Bizzy misses her best friend and probably has zero coping skills when it comes to processing loss. She also doesn’t have _real_ friends besides Susan, right? She has people she _associates_ with. The women from the Greenwich Society, Junior League, her gardening club...none of that is real, right? It’s just surface level. So that has to make it harder, too. And people sometimes do stupid things when they’re in distress. Or maybe...” Archer glances at the Captain, his expression wary. “Has anything else been going on? Has Bizzy been depressed or had suicidal ideation before? Captain...?” 

Their father appears as though he is barely listening, but he tunes back in when he hears his name, and even though it was Archer speaking, his eyes lock with Addison first. It’s truly a _look_ he gives her. _He knows, doesn’t he?_ Addison feels her chest tighten. _He has to know._

“I can’t have this conversation. I’m going back in there.”

Archer sighs his displeasure when the Captain steps back into Bizzy’s room. “Notice the wording. He said he can’t have this conversation, not that he can’t have it _right now_. God, this family of status-obsessed, look-the-other-way, judgmental wolves we were born into. Well...at least now we know we can never bring it up. Might as well know that right off the bat while Bizzy and the Captain handle this _matter_ privately.”

“Archer…”

“It’s done, Addison. I’m getting out of here for a bit; I need some air. Tell Susan’s family that I’m sorry for their loss. I’ll…I’ll see you back at the house.”

Addison goes to the funeral alone. She _feels_ alone that day, too.

And so many days that follow, too.

. .  
. .

“I’ll be fine,” Mark tells Addison while she pinches one of the edges of the striped beach blanket between her fingers while a bit of a scowl (part annoyance, part amusement) is playing at her mouth. Wind sways around them, so Mark speaks louder while gesturing to his current attire. “At least this time I have a wetsuit – that will help. Plus, isn’t it kind of fun for you to unashamedly check me out in a tight wetsuit? You don’t even have to be subtle.” Addison knows what he’s getting at, of course. In the BA (“Before Affair,” coined by Savvy), she would have been more discreet if Mark was shirtless (or in a wetsuit, as it now stands), and would have looked away out of respect to her husband, whether or not Derek was present. Not this time though. And it really is a nice visual. “We’ll get you one this afternoon, Red. And then tomorrow morning you can join me.”

“Your efforts will be futile. I have absolutely no plans to come with you,” Addison says, but she grins while saying it. Nothing about getting in the Atlantic this time of year appeals to her, but if she did, it does occur to her that Mark would probably hold her close. And he _would_ find a lot of ways to warm her up afterwards. 

“You have no plans to come with me…” Mark repeats, a devilish smirk appearing on his face. “I can’t speak for swimming, but our sexual history together says otherwise.” He gives her a cocky wink and then walks down towards the shoreline. “Just give me a few minutes.”

 _A few minutes is all you’ve got?_ Addison almost banters back, and the fact that she’s embracing Mark’s brand of humor…it’s truly a sign of how deeply her life has become entwined with his. 

She frowns when she feels her cell phone vibrate in the pouch pocket of her Columbia sweatshirt. She wants to be present this weekend, but she can’t exactly ignore real life given that this isn’ _t real_ -real life in the Hamptons with Mark. And the frown persists when Addison sees who is calling, but she feels an accompanying stab of worry in her stomach, because she always, always will now when her mother’s name flashes across the screen. She stands up and accepts the call, walking further away from the ocean in order to hear better. 

“Good morning, Bizzy.”

“Good morning,” Bizzy answers. There’s a long pause. “Your connection is poor. I can barely hear you. You should have someone come out to your home to -”

“I’m in the Hamptons,” Addison interrupts. She sees Mark in the distance swimming long, clean strokes through the metallic flush of water. He slips neatly beneath a wave about to break while Addison provides her mother with more information: “I’m at the beach right now, so that’s why the connection isn’t great. I’m with my friend Savvy. She’s -”

“I remember her. Please tell her I say hello. And that I hope she and her husband are doing well.”

“I will.” This has always vaguely annoyed Addison, that Bizzy does seem to like and approve of the friends Addison made in college and med school, the friends who are _still_ her friends. Bizzy always seemed shocked that Addison was capable of finding people outside the thoroughbred kids essentially hand-selected by Bizzy to interact with her children. They were always supposedly the _right_ sort of people.

“Lovely. I won’t keep you long since I can’t hear you well, but I wanted to let you know Susan’s memorial is going to be on the ninth.”

“Okay. Thank you. I’m glad you told me.”

Addison went to the small gathering at Bruce Park that Susan’s sister hosted on the closest Saturday to the first anniversary of Susan’s death, and she went to the one last year, too. The third-year one likely won’t be possible though…April ninth is just too close to Savvy’s due date. Addison will talk to Bizzy about this later though when the reception is less crappy, and when she has more time to prepare words that are gentle and measured. 

“Andrea is apparently doing a balloon release again.” Bizzy sighs with enough volume that Addison pulls the phone away from her ear. “It’s so tacky. What is this, a child’s birthday party?”

“I know it’s not really your style, but it sounds like Andrea is just trying to do something nice,” Addison replies calmly. She knows she is going to hear plenty of remarks like this in the coming weeks, and vows to respond with patience each time. 

And Addison really _does_ feel bad that she won’t be able to come. It’s not the sort of thing Bizzy would invite the Captain or Archer to. And, well…Bizzy doesn’t actually invite Addison either, because asking for something just isn’t in Bizzy’s nature. The invitation always hangs in the air between them though; Bizzy calls to tell Addison the date, she offers to attend, and Bizzy doesn’t object to this offer. 

It’s possibly the closest they’ve come in years to mother-daughter bonding. And Addison of course understands that in spite of all the complaining about balloons and other aesthetic deficiencies, why her mother feels a sense of urgency to attend these things for Susan. 

. .  
. .

“I looked at the schedule in Bizzy’s office. The cleaning people come on Tuesday,” Addison tells Archer, and he both nods and grimaces his understanding. It’s too many days away. They can’t just leave the wine cellar how it currently is. “And I spoke with the Captain and he said -”

“Oh, I can imagine. Getting the cellar professionally cleaned would mean people outside the immediate family would _know_ about this. So God forbid ‘the help’ do it.”

“He’s going to stay the night with Bizzy at Glenville.” Addison imagines her father pulled some strings in order to do this. “And he said he’d clean it up tomorrow, but he...he can’t do that, Archie. It would destroy him. I don’t want to go against his wishes if he doesn’t want to have outside people come in, but -”

“Addie…” Archer shakes his head when he realizes where she is going with this. “No.” 

“We could do it together…”

“I can’t, Addison. I…I can’t.” Archer inhales roughly, and looks away when his eyes become glassy. “And I know that’s selfish, but I can’t. I _won’t_. It’s self-preservation; I can’t do that to myself, and you shouldn’t do that to yourself, either. If it’s something you’re determined to do so that no one else has to, go ahead; I’m sorry, but I’m not coming with you.”

So Addison does it alone. She strips out of her funeral clothes; she raids a closet to gather a bucket, mop, cleaning gloves, rags, bleach, and an abrasive sponge; and she goes down to the wine cellar by herself. It almost feels _quaint_ that she used to associate the cellar with claustrophobia, of being trapped in the dark. Not anymore. 

And in the end, Addison is certain she has wiped away more tears than she has drops of blood.

. .  
. .

“Mm. That was amazing,” Addison murmurs into Mark’s ear. The heavy bursts of air they’ve been dragging in and out are finally starting to slow down, to return to normal, which has made speaking a bit easier. She places a lingering, appreciative kiss to Mark’s jawline, and then lifts herself out of his lap, craving nothing more than getting to stretch her legs. She lies down on her side of the bed – well, sort of the middle of the bed, since their pillows are touching and it’s a King – and drapes her elbows loosely over her head. 

Mark settles down next to her. “As amazing the shower earlier?”

“I think you’re more obsessed with shower sex than anyone I know. And…maybe. We might need to test it out again later.”

“That’s a good idea. But hey, Addison…was everything okay this morning?”

“In the shower?” She jokes.

Mark starts to chuckle. “No, sorry. I was going to ask you _before_ the shower or just at some point today…” he rolls over to face her, so she mirrors his posture. Mark doesn’t really know if he _wants_ to know the answer because it’s been such a great day and he doesn’t want to do anything to disrupt that, but it’s been on his mind. “When I was in the ocean,” he continues, “I could see you on your phone and it didn’t seem like a call you really wanted to be on. And you were pacing, which is usually what you do when you’re stressed. I thought maybe Derek called or something...”

“No. It was Bizzy. Bad reception though, so luckily I didn’t have to talk to her very long. She was calling to tell me about a memorial thing for Susan that’s coming up next month. Remember -”

“Yeah,” he finishes. “Her friend slash lover.”

“Right.” Addison is quiet for a moment, teeth sinking into her lower lip in contemplation. “Do you think…do you think balloon releases are tacky?”

“I mean.” Mark shrugs, uncertain. “They’re bad for the environment, but as far as being tacky…I don’t know. Probably not. I guess it’s kind of a nice gesture.”

“That’s what I told Bizzy. She gets so worked up about the details of the things Andrea – that’s Susan’s sister – puts together. Balloon releases, sheet cakes, the fact that people wear _jeans_ to these gatherings…things like that. It’s just clear that Bizzy hates going to the yearly memorials, but she feels an obligation to. She wasn’t able to attend Susan’s funeral. She…couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Derek honestly never told you?” Addison has asked Mark this once before, when the subject briefly came up. She wonders if maybe Derek really _is_ just that good and respectful about privacy; or it’s that nothing involving Addison really matters or affects him much anymore. 

“He’s never told me anything about Bizzy missing Susan’s funeral. Or anything about Bizzy from around that time. You can tell me though, if you want. I’m listening.” Mark thinks for a moment, and something occurs to him. “A few months ago, that weekend we were here: you went into the closet to grab a flashlight, and you mentioned an ‘incident’ with Bizzy, and that was what freaked you out about small spaces…but you didn’t want to talk about it. Is it about that?”

“Yeah. And now I…” Addison feels her voice break, and fights back against the lump threatening to fill her throat. “I do kind of want to tell you about it.” She isn’t sure why, but ever since this morning’s phone call, she’s felt such a _pull_ to tell him. 

“Okay. C’mere first.” Mark adjusts himself on his pillow to make room for her to share it, and then draws her into his arms, tucking her head under his chin. It’s the right thing to do, to hug Addison while she tells him, and he thinks maybe she’ll feel more comfortable talking to him about it if he keeps her close. He senses that whatever it is, it’s serious. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he adds gently.

“Okay. So. The day before Susan’s funeral, Bizzy tried to kill herself.” She can immediately feel the protraction of Mark’s chest, and hear the quiet, wet gasp of disbelief. “Yeah. I was looking for her that morning and couldn’t find her, so I decided to check the wine cellar. The infamous one that Patch Gold locked me in when I was a little girl. So I went down to the cellar. The door was closed, but I could see the strip of light underneath it, so I knew Bizzy was in there. I called out her name as I walked over, but I didn’t get a response, so I went ahead and opened the door. And I knew I was going to see something bad, I somehow just _knew_ that I was, but I still didn’t think…I didn’t think it would be _that_ bad. There was…” Addison pulls in a shuddery breath and feels Mark’s arms tighten around her. “There was so much blood. Like, everywhere. She broke a wine bottle – the room is insulated, so none of us heard it – and took one of the jagged edges and slit her wrists.” Addison shifts back, realigning herself on the pillow so that they are face-to-face. She wants to see him.

Mark’s knuckles drag over her cheek. “Addison…”

She forces herself to keep going. “I yelled for help. My voice…eventually it went hoarse from the yelling. The Captain was out on the Sound, but Archer and Derek were there. I pulled my cardigan off to help stop the bleeding and then…then Archer and Derek were down there with me. One of them called 911 while the other helped me with the bleeding…I don’t know which…” Addison shakes her head. “Not that that detail _matters_ , but it’s crazy how many things about that day ended up being a blur. Trauma just sort of edits you and everything around you, you know? Anyway, the ambulance came and Bizzy went to the ER. She was stabilized, and then transferred to an outpatient facility the next afternoon…which was the day of Susan’s funeral. And now…Bizzy is doing okay now. It took some time, but she’s…she’s functioning. There’s peaks and valleys, but she’s functioning. She and the Captain are actually closer now, I think. After it happened though, she started taking an antidepressant and started talking to a therapist…that’s all I really know. She might not be doing either of those things anymore. But even…even if she _wasn’t_ doing okay, even if she still felt broken from the inside out, I don’t think she’d attempt something like that again. All the attention embarrassed her, as did…as did not being able to finish the job, I guess. I know how dark that sounds. And she never…we never talked about it again. Not really, anyway. That…that feels so nice, Mark,” Addison mumbles, veering off topic when he starts stroking her hair. He offers her a small, encouraging smile and kisses the bridge of her nose. “She was out to sea and she…she almost drowned. And I called Bizzy a lot that first year to check in – and she always seemed weirded out that I was calling to _check in_ , since that wasn’t the Forbes Montgomery way. I’d ask how she was doing though and she’d say she was fine and that I didn’t have to worry, but that’s not really…a real talk. That’s what Bizzy was able to give me though, and I guess it’s better than nothing. But I…I wanted to talk about it with her. I still do; I just don’t know where to start.”

Mark’s hand stills against the back of her head. “What would you want to tell her?” He asks.

Addison’s tears finally start to fall. “That I’m sorry,” she says, voice cracking again.

“You’re sorry?”

“Yeah.” She nods wearily and closes her eyes. “First, that I’m sorry for the excruciating pain Bizzy was clearly in. We’re all guaranteed pain in life, but not everyone feels it like _that_. The grief and just…everything above and beyond the grief. And that I’m sorry…I’m sorry if I in any way contributed to the pain by…by just doing what I did. Since Bizzy isn’t in a place of such acute distress anymore she has a better _sense_ of things, of what’s rational and what isn’t, but I always wondered if she was angry at me for saving her. And I’m _relieved_ Bizzy’s still here, and I think she is too – or she’s at least not upset about it anymore – but that probably wasn’t how she felt initially, and for that I’m apologetic. She probably didn’t want to be saved. I…I’ve never told anyone that before, about the angry thing. And it’s almost fitting in a way…I went looking for her because I’ve always been so freaking desperate for my mother’s love and approval, and then I saved her…but it was really just another way in which I was disappointing her, because if Bizzy had it her way, I wouldn’t have saved her. So I ruined it. And the thing is that I’d understand if Bizzy _was_ angry; not everyone wants to be saved or thinks their life is worth saving when they’re that deep in a sea of suffering. But now…I think she’s reached a peaceful space, or at least a _bearable_ space to live out her remaining years. She doesn’t have Susan, but she has my dad and a lot of things to keep her occupied, and I know in her way – her own way – she loves me. And while I don’t think she’s mad at me, I wish I could have known for certain if she ever _was_ , and that we could have talked about it. Anyway.” Addison opens her eyes, blinking slowly as Mark’s face comes back into view. “That’s…that’s what I wanted to tell you, Mark. And I guess it’s also just that…after all this time, I thought Bizzy would at least ask me if _I’m_ okay, too.” She breathes in deeply, and then slowly exhales. Her face feels tingly from the exhaustion and anxiety of sharing this, and her throat is painfully constricted, but there’s also a sense of relief sailing through her. Like something has been lifted. 

She shed her clothes earlier when she and Mark got into bed. But now she’s shedding something else, too. She’s never been this vulnerable with anyone before. 

“I’m so sorry,” Mark finally says, voice low and croaky. “I’m sorry, Red.”

“Thank you. I’m glad I told you, but it’s…it’s okay, Mark.” She can see the worry in his light blue eyes. “I promise I’m okay. Or, well…” she shrugs weakly, and tries to smile. “Mostly, anyway.”

Mark pulls her closer again, brushing his mouth against her cheek. “I know you are, but that’s still something really, really horrible to have to go through, and to have to carry with you.” His lips are soothing as they trace over her dampened skin.

“It was. It is,” Addison confirms. And Derek’s patience with it being a really, really horrible thing came with a time limit, but she knows that’s partly on her, too: she never tried to talk to him about the guilt, and the deep-rooted fear that maybe Bizzy resented her. But with Mark…she wanted to. That’s the difference. “You’re kissing my tears away,” she whispers, voice etched with tenderness when she realizes the comforting path Mark is making along her cheeks and jawbone is somewhat deliberate.

Mark pulls back to grin at her. “There you go again, underestimating me,” he teases. “You don’t always have to be so _surprised_ when I do something nice. I do care about you, you know.”

“I know. And I care about you too, Mark. I…I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” Addison lightly touches his chest, watching as a smile explodes across Mark’s face. It’s his turn to be surprised. And maybe hers again, because she’s thought about saying it – _wanted_ to say it – for a few days now, but she wasn’t sure if she could, or would. It’s a big thing to have allowed herself to do. “But please don’t ask what I’m going to do,” she continues quickly, “because I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Mark nods, still smiling, but he tries to look serious at this. “Let’s just stay in this weekend’s bubble. But just know that I love you and you...you don’t have to change anything for me about…about us and, like, things that happen when we’re not together. I can’t ask anything else from you or _of_ you. Not like this, when I’m still married. It wouldn’t be fair.”

 _You can ask me_ , Mark thinks. _Ask me to and I will. It can just be you, Addison. I want that_.

It’s never been like this before. Yes, Mark’s had girlfriends, and although he wasn’t always faithful when all was said and done, he feels like he could have been…if he _wanted_ to be. And that’s the thing: he wants to, now. He just wants Addison. Only Addison.

Addison shakes her head when she can tell Mark’s silence is indicative of the fact that he is preparing counter statements. “Mark. You’re hearing me, right? Nothing can really change.”

“Okay. I’m hearing you. If that’s what you want, then okay.”

“Thank you. It wasn’t…you know, yesterday was pretty bad, but today…today was a good day.”

“Yeah. It was.” 

“You missed a tear, by the way.” Addison smirks and points to a droplet hovering near the outer corner of her eye. “You should probably take care of that.”

Mark smiles and kisses the lingering moisture, and then slides his lips down near her earlobe. “I love you,” he says softly. It’s sort of extraordinary. He never gets to say this. And he never gets to hear it.

“I love you too, Mark.”

. .  
. .

Addison is up before Mark the next morning, and decides to get the coffee started. She stands by the kitchen window while the coffee is brewing, taking in the blush pinks, purples, and blues of a just-passing dawn as the sun creeps over the horizon. They are heading back to Manhattan this afternoon, so she felt compelled to get up early, to hold onto the remaining time they have. And she knows Mark won’t sleep in late, anyway; he wants to go to the beach again. He did end up buying her a wetsuit yesterday while they were down near the harbor. Addison knows she’s going to hate every minute of being in the water…but she likes every minute of being with him. 

She can hear Mark coming into the kitchen, so she doesn’t jump in surprise when he wraps his arms around her from behind, and rests his lips against her neck. It strikes her that it’s so intimate. And so…couple-ish. But they _are_ a couple now, in some sense.

“You sleep okay?” Mark asks. 

“Yes.” Addison reaches a hand back to affectionately stroke the back of his neck. “I was just thinking that I love...I love who I get to be when I’m with you.”

 _I love you_. Saying it, or drifting closer to saying it – there are so many variances of it that start to come up for couples. _I love the way you make me feel. I love when you wear your hair like that. I love your laugh_. _I love the way your mind works._ Things like that. 

And this observation Addison shared is the truth, plain and simple, with or without a particular type of love assigned to it. It’s not just about sex with Mark, and although sex is what _got_ them to this point, she is beginning to consider that in some ways maybe it never _was_ just about sex. 

It couldn’t be. Not when she feels something this deeply, this intensely. 

Maybe it’s that they had similar childhoods, marred with loneliness, questionable parenting, and privilege that should have been a comfort, but was really just a damage-laden burden to carry around on their wealthy shoulders each day. Maybe it’s that they share certain characteristics, ones Derek either doesn’t have or snubs his nose at. Maybe it’s that they have been such good friends for such a long time. Maybe it’s that she feels like she could tell him absolutely anything. 

Or maybe it’s just…something new. Mark sees her. Really sees her. And knows her. And doesn’t judge her. Addison doesn’t have to apologize for anything she is or isn’t, or be anything other than herself around him. He makes her feel like she’s enough. He _loves_ her like she’s enough. 

“Me too,” Mark replies, and Addison doesn’t ask him to clarify if he means that he _also_ loves who she gets to be or if he loves who _he_ gets to be when he’s with her. 

She thinks that it’s probably both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes: 
> 
> First, I forgot to mention in the last chapter that the line “I’m an easy mark for evil redheads” was pulled from Grey’s 3x19. Mark and Addison were discussing weaknesses. That’s Mark’s weakness. And Addison reported that she has none…she’s "that good."
> 
> The “underestimating me” comment is a nod to Grey’s 3x14. Addison and Mark were watching Burke and Derek duke it out for Chief of Surgery.  
> Mark: “Aren’t you gonna get in there? You wanna be Chief, you gotta fight with the big boys.”  
> Addison: “Oh, I intend to fight like a girl. I’ll let them kill each other and then I’ll be the only one left standing.”  
> Mark: “And then there’s me. There you go underestimating me again.”  
> Addison: “Oh, it’s not that I underestimate you, it’s just that I don’t think about you. At all.”  
> Mark: “Well, you should.” (And then we know how that episode ends and that was an extremely steamy scene and I am actually puzzled – though NOT complaining – that network peeps didn’t try to tone it down a little…this was like 2007) (Also I died of the cuteness in an earlier scene when Mark was stroking Addison’s hair when she, her fellow attendings, and lines-of-deliciousness Alex were recovering from being exposed to the patient with toxic blood. And also Addison was such a badass and I also died when Mark caught her after she stumbled out of the OR after helping the patient who was starting to wake up.)
> 
> In PP 3x11, before Mark and Addison are lying on the floor of her office (naked and basically presenting themselves towards Addison’s UNLOCKED door, as one does…God these two are so dumb), Addison revealed to Mark that Bizzy was a lesbian, and said, “Which means the Captain wasn’t a cheater. It was all a sham…my whole childhood. Everything I believed about my dad, my mom, love, marriage, it’s all turned on its head.” And then the “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Red,” lines is near the end of this episode. *sobs*
> 
> In PP season 2, Archer describes Addison to her then-boyfriend Kevin as a “thoroughbred.”
> 
> In PP 4x14, Addison was talking to her brother about how Bizzy died/how she found her: “She was broken from grief. She was out to sea and she drowned. It doesn’t make her selfish. It doesn't even mean that she didn’t love us in her own way.”
> 
> A Bizzy quote from PP 3x10: “I could have done things. I could have been things…I got married because that was what I was supposed to do. And I chose your father because he asked. And he was nice. And he seemed like he wouldn’t suffocate me. And by the time I realized my mistake, I had children. So I made a life. I did what I could with what I had. And I may not have been in love with your father, but I loved him. I do love him. And I loved you and your brother. And so instead of doing what I wanted to, which was run or slit my wrists, I threw birthday parties and I smiled and I kept my mouth shut.” This was an incredibly visceral, well-acted scene between Kate Walsh and her onscreen mother, JoBeth Williams – there are certain scenes throughout PP that I feel like, were the show more popular across the board, might have been worthy of some award nominations, and this was one of them for me. So, as far as Bizzy’s suicide attempt referenced throughout this chapter (and as you know, this diverts heavily from canon)...I don’t think that would ever, ever have been Bizzy’s “way” of ending her life even in the absence of pills, but sometimes I like to made my nods to canon scenes as literal as possible. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Next chapter will be a bit more Mark-centric with flashbacks. My life is starting to get a bit busier these days for various reasons, so updates will likely come every other week now rather than weekly (who knows though, this could def be subject to change). Thanks for your patience/understanding. :)


	17. We'd Share Each Other Like an Island

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric in the song “Set the Fire to the Third Bar” by Snow Patrol AKA A SONG THAT HAS ALWAYS MADE ME THINK OF ADDISON/DEREK/MARK. 
> 
> I’d also like to just say in advance of this chapter, thank you for your patience with the flashbacks that might not always seem like flashbacks at first. I was adamant about not doing flashbacks in italics because of how long some of them might be (visually, I was having issues with it, especially since I’m prone to hitting the italicize button), and I also didn’t want to box myself in with a “three years earlier” type thing in case I ended up changing my mind about the order of things (math is hard, yo). I’ve also always wanted the flashbacks to feel a bit more open-ended, more fluid, and make the reader question things, because so much of Mark and Addison’s relationship is just a complex and indiscernible push and pull. They are forever oscillating between comfort (sexual and otherwise) and chaos (sexual and otherwise), with peaks and valleys along the way. This is why most of the chapter titles are more nature/element themed, save for a few…more on that later though. If at any point you’re not clear on something though, please message me and hopefully I can clear it up!

**Chapter 17. We’d Share Each Other Like an Island**

The frothy, white-whipped shoreline begins to fall behind Mark and Addison as they swim out into the Atlantic on Sunday morning. They churn slashes of water behind them until they are deep enough to alternate between treading water and digging their feet into the sea floor, each variance occurring with the push and pull of retreating waves.

Addison throws her arms around Mark’s shoulders, and water flushes off the exposed parts of her wetsuit when she anchors her legs over his waist. Mark presses a palm to her lower back to steady her as a wave rolls past them.

“Having fun?” He teases, knowing the answer. Addison didn’t want to do this, and it truly is freezing, even with the comfort of their sealed wetsuits. 

“No!” She insists, but she’s laughing anyway. “I hate this. Hate-hate. But…” her words are absorbed when Mark brushes his lips against her sea-slicked mouth. Addison tries again when he eases back: “I’m so, so happy right now.”

Mark smiles and buries his face in the curve of her neck. The rich, salty smell of the ocean is overpowering, but he can still detect the vanilla and something-else-he-can-never-place scent of Addison’s perfume fighting underneath the shimmering flecks of salt. 

“Me too, Red,” he murmurs.

It’s cold, but they are here and they are together. Nothing else really matters.

. .  
. .

About a year before Amy showed up in the Hamptons with a man named Hunter, there was a man named Brandon. _Three Weeks Brandon_ – that’s how Mark referred to him. And at the time, Mark truly couldn’t have imagined a more awkward situation between himself, Addison, Derek, and Amy, but on _that_ particular day in May, it sure felt like things couldn’t get more tension-filled.

“Hey. So, uh, that’s quite the news about Amy.” Mark grins with uncertainty when Addison opens the door. Mark is here to watch the Yankees-Red Sox game, and on the cab ride over, he received a call from a resigned-sounding Carolyn Shepherd, letting him know Amy has gotten engaged to a man she has known all of three weeks, and Amy wants them all to meet Brandon on Saturday. “Derek’s mom called,” Mark elaborates. “I guess Amy wanted to invite me to the thing at Bamonte’s, too. It seems…like it’s gonna be awkward. Please tell me I don’t have to go, Red. I’m not technically her brother, after all.”

“It is indeed going to be awkward, and no, Mark, you don’t have to attend,” Addison replies. “I think Amy just wanted to be sure she extended the invite to the dinner – _engagement_ dinner just seems so…wrong. It’s gonna take me a minute to get used to that one. And unfortunately you’ve walked right into the middle of a fight about said dinner.”

“Hey, Mark,” Derek greets as he walks back into the living room with drinks in hand. “If you want to have a beer and just sit down…” he glances warily at his wife. “Addison, let’s just go upstairs for a sec, or talk about this later…later would be better…”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Addison’s hands are like claws on her hips. “Mark is a big boy. He can leave the room if he’s uncomfortable. Derek, the way you’re acting -”

“I am opening up Cece Grant’s _head_ tomorrow night. You get that, right? Also, welcome to the Trust Triangle, Mark, since I just name-dropped a patient.” Derek holds out a beer for him. 

“I get that you can’t make it,” Addison says while Mark quietly accepts the beer and nods his thanks. “I _get_ that. It’s way too last minute of an ask from your sister, and I know you and the Chief have gone to certain lengths to ensure the privacy of the patient, which includes surgery at a later time on a quieter night – I’m not upset about that.” 

_For once you’re not_ , Mark thinks, a little uncharitably. _And maybe Derek is thinking it too_ , he considers. Mark feels like Addison is often angry about Derek’s private practice and surgery prioritization these days, and he doesn’t really blame her. It has to be hard, to be married to a person who is equally married to his career. Surgeons always have two spouses, and that goes for Addison, too. She also works long hours and sometimes has to put surgeries and medical crises ahead of getting home at a reasonable hour, and she sometimes has to cancel plans, too. Some days, Mark just doesn’t see how a marriage – any marriage – is sustainable when your profession is also a calling. But maybe even with or without a calling, maybe some people just don’t or wouldn’t make good spouses. Mark knows _he_ wouldn’t, for instance.

“What I’m saying,” Addison continues, and her clipped tone is enough to make Mark refocus on the argument happening before him, “is that this can’t be your _reaction_ , Derek – or not how you react when you talk to Amy, at least.”

“Wait. Cece Grant…like Cecilia Grant?” Mark asks. It’s just occurred to him. “As in -”

“Yeah,” Derek answers. “The governor’s wife. Meningioma, about the size of a lemon.”

“Anything for that tax break,” Mark quips, mostly to try to diffuse some of the tension. It’s like he’s a kid right now and his parents are divorcing. He hasn’t witnessed many spats between Addison and Derek during their marriage – coming up on ten years – but he knows what to expect. Derek can injure with words, and sometimes loses the plot because he sees the world in black and white. And Addison can be petty and will furnish receipts out of nowhere regarding any minor marital complaint she’s been holding onto; she can be passive-aggressive at times. “Especially when it comes to a governor who will probably announce his intention to run for the big job soon.”

“Right.” Derek looks back at Addison. “So -”

“I’m just saying this is about giving Amy our love and support. And maybe…maybe this will work out? It’s _doubtful_ , but still, you never know. And Derek, she works so hard and she has such a kind heart. I know this is impulsive, but on a list of Amy-related impulsive acts, this isn’t too -”

“I’m well aware of the impulsive acts, thanks, and I could really, really do without the reminder.”

“Oh, you’re being such an _ass_ , you know that?” Addison snaps back. “I wasn’t trying to bring _that_ up. I’m just saying it could be worse, and whether or not we think this is a good idea…we need to be supportive, because in the event the engagement or marriage blows up, or Amy needs a shoulder to lean on…she needs a safety net, not just as a human being with feelings, but also as a recovering addict. This is your baby sister, Derek. The least you can do -”

“Addison.” Derek says her name like a warning, and it makes Mark’s chest constrict. Derek has done this before, and Mark doesn’t like it. It sounds mean. “Can we just…not do this in front of Mark, please? I can’t interpret girl flip out while I’m standing next to my best friend _and_ while the Yankees are blowing a three-run lead in the foreground. Let’s discuss this later. It can wait.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, Mark _also_ thinks you’re being an ass.”

Mark clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’m standing right here, Red.” He raises his hands in a way that indicates his innocence. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it. I could tell.”

“What are you, his girlfriend?” Derek sneers. “You can read his mind now?”

“Okay. I’m gonna go in the kitchen and just…give you two lovebirds a minute,” Mark mumbles as he backs away. This exchange was briefly tolerable to bear witness to, but not anymore. And Addison _was_ sort of reading his mind, which is freaky. Mark was thinking that Derek _can_ be unforgiving and critical at times, especially when it comes to family members’ mistakes.

A few minutes later, Derek comes into the kitchen, looking a little tired, but no longer angry.

“Sorry about that,” he says quietly.

“I don’t think I’m the one you need to apologize to, man.” Mark takes a long swig of his second beer. He doesn’t elaborate. Let Derek decide if he’s talking about Addison, Amy, or both.

“I know. I said sorry to Addie. We both apologized. She – well, you know her. She’s pretty forgiving. We patched it up, and then right after that, Bizzy called. She’s upstairs talking with her now…as though this evening didn’t suck enough for her.” Derek sighs remorsefully. “It’s just, this Amy thing is unbelievable and yet so completely predictable at the same time.”

“I don’t think Addison approves of it either, for what it’s worth. Just…the family stuff is important to her.”

Derek presses his palms against the counter, and gives Mark a look that displays both surprise and defensiveness. “It’s not like it’s not important to me,” he states testily.

“No, I know,” Mark quickly responds. “It’s just the kind of upbringing Addison had…it’s different, that’s all. So when she reacts the way she does – well, she’s _your_ wife, not mine, so what the hell do I know – I’m just saying it’s probably not meant to feel like she’s coming at you with a scalpel.”

“Right.” Derek nods in agreement, and his features soften. “And I know you know that about upbringings too, Mark. That procedure though…I _do_ feel bad, but I don’t think I can just dial the main line for the New York State Capitol to ask -”

“Give Amy a call,” Mark cuts in. “And score points by calling her while Addison is within earshot – and tell Amy you can’t make it to the dinner because it’s unfortunately too last minute and you have somewhat of a public figure who is going to be in your OR that evening, but you’re happy for her and can’t wait to meet the guy. Then throw out some options for nights you can take her and Mr. Three Weeks out to dinner. And send…” Mark hesitates when he almost says the word _wine_. No. Not appropriate for Amy. “Send flowers to be delivered to Amy’s table at the restaurant. Girls eat that shit up.”

“That’s actually…a really great idea.” Derek smiles his amusement. “What a charmer you are. So are you…are you thinking of going? I’m sure Amy would love for you to be there, but I’d understand if you don’t want any part of this shitshow.”

Mark shrugs. “Well, I don’t have the governor’s wife on my operating table two days from now and I don’t have anything else going on, so I might as well. I can go in your place, if you want. You know, crack my knuckles a little, flex my forearms so ol’ Bran knows I mean business. And I can take the nagging wife off your hands for a few hours.”

Derek manages a smile at this playful comment. “Thanks. Probably a good idea…on both counts. You know, Addison, she…she deserves better, sometimes. That’s not lost on me. Or something...” Derek runs his thumb over a weary brow. “I’m just not…I don’t know how to explain it…”

“Do you…want to try to explain it?”

“No. What I want right now is another beer.”

“Okay then.” Mark moves towards the fridge. “Coming right up.”

. .  
. .

“You know, when I was…” Mark looks over at Addison when he cuts the engine after pulling into his spot in the parking garage. It has just occurred to him that he really wants to tell her something...but his words slip away when he notices tears wobbling down Addison’s cheeks. “Addie…”

“It’s okay,” she sniffles. “I’m okay.”

Mark holds a hand out, and Addison places her smaller, ring-clad one in his. “You’re crying though,” he acknowledges softly.

“I just wish this weekend didn’t have to end. But it’s…I’ll be okay, Mark.” She turns to face him, wiping sheepishly at her cheeks with her free hand and trying to smile. “Can we just…sit here for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answers. He certainly shares in this feeling. “As long as you want.”

“I just need a few minutes, and then I’ll call for a cab. Sorry though – I kind of interrupted you. What were you saying?”

Mark grimaces. It can wait. “Never mind. I don’t know if I should tell you right now, when you’re upset. It’s not the most…upbeat story.”

Addison shakes her head. “It’s okay. I want you to tell me. Please.” It has occurred to her recently that although she knows a lot about Mark, she doesn’t know everything, and she really does _want_ to know everything. That’s what love has shifted into for her. She wants to know Mark, every part of him, even the sad parts, and she wants him to know every part of her, too.

“I was just gonna say that I found my mother once. Not – not like you found Bizzy, but still just…in a way you’re not supposed to find anyone, especially a parent. It was in the summer, and I was a kid, so I was outside all day, just doing that kid thing where you only come inside for lunch and dinner. And when I came in around lunchtime, Jenny was in bed, which was weird – usually during the summer she’d still be up and ‘with it’ enough to make me lunch. And when I saw her, she was lying on her back and sort of…like, _jerking_. And breathing funny and sputtering. And I didn’t see anything just then, but something told me she was going to throw up, so I rolled her onto her side. She started crying…she was saying her stomach hurt.” It made sense to Mark, even as a little boy with no guidance, to turn his mother on her side to help her clear out the toxic substances. Maybe he had the makings of a medical professional even then. “And Jenny did start vomiting over the edge of the bed, once I turned her. And when there started to be longer breaks in between her throwing up and I felt like I could leave her for a minute, I called 9-1-1, and then…then my dad walked in. Right when I was literally about to call him at work. He came home for lunch, which was kind of lucky, since he didn’t do that often. And by the time the ambulance arrived, Jenny was fine…drunk and loopy and obviously riding some sort of narcotics wave, sure, but…also fine. And coherent.” Mark smiles when Addison covers their joined hands with her other hand. “So Everett gave some sort of _Lifetime_ movie version of what happened to the paramedics, you know, like Jenny was taking Valium for anxiety and then got a little carried away with some wine with friends while I was at a friend’s house or something…and I’m sure he told whatever neighbors were home a similar story…I don’t really remember. I do remember Everett told a joke or something in front of the paramedics at one point though because everyone was laughing, even Jenny. And Everett was able to sort of steer me away whenever a paramedic tried to ask me questions…and maybe I just knew anyway what I should and shouldn’t say. And then once Jenny was assessed and the paramedics determined she was fine and just needed to stay hydrated, well…that was that. It might not even…it’s hard to say for sure _what_ I even really saw. If I think about it now…it doesn’t seem like…it might not have even been an overdose; I don’t know. I was a kid. It wasn’t my job to know. And after the paramedics left, my dad was…sort of annoyed by the whole thing. It was like I caused a _scene_ or something – a circus. Yeah, that was it. He said the afternoon turned into ‘a circus’ because of me. I’m sure some of that annoyance was reserved for Jenny and was just dumped on me instead, but the fact that the paramedics showed up and did their thing and then happily went on their way…I assume if I was living in a more run-down area and my dad didn’t _present_ so well, I’d have been walking out of there with a social worker. You know, I’ve never told anyone this before. Just…just you.”

“How old were you? You said you were a kid, but you didn’t say -”

“Nine.”

Addison’s face falls. “Oh, Mark…”

“I’m okay, Red. I just wanted you to know, that’s all. And Jenny…she actually stopped drinking for a bit after that. That was a silver lining, I guess. She still took pills, and I don’t really see why she thought one might cancel out the other, but she did try. She really tried. And she did feel bad about what happened. The next morning, she woke me up early, and asked if I wanted to do something fun, just the two of us, and I was a kid, and, like you, pretty much bursting for my mother’s love, so of course I was all over that. She took me to Skaneateles Lake. She said she used to go there with her dad when she was little. And we didn’t bring suits or anything, and the sun was barely up, but we took off our shoes and socks, and rolled up our pants and waded in up to our knees. And while we were standing in the water just looking out at the horizon, she put her hand on my shoulder, and…she…she told me she was sorry about what happened yesterday, and that she loved me and she knew she wasn’t always a good mother, and that she’d try harder. And getting into water that stupidly cold sort of became a…thing for us.” Mark smiles at the memory. “You know those polar plunges people do? We started doing our own. Jenny said the ones people do on New Year’s Day are too cliché – but mostly she was just sparing us both from the fact that she’d be way too hungover on the first to leave the house – so we always did it on New Year’s Eve morning. And I always knew…I always knew that if nothing else, I had that one _day_ with Jenny. Not the whole day, mind you – she and my dad always went out on New Year’s Eve – but still a decent chunk of it. We’d wake up early, head to the Finger Lakes, and then we’d be eating pancakes at this ugly-looking diner by eight. It always made me feel like…like she wanted me.”

“You didn’t…Mark, you think that Jenny didn’t want you?”

Mark glances down. “No. I don’t know.” He shrugs and looks back at her. “Sometimes.”

“Oh. So…those plunges…” Addison adds, attempting to draw Mark in another direction. She feels broken-hearted for him, for that little boy who turned all the lights on before he went to bed and wanted so much to spend time with his mother, and she really just wants to crawl into his lap so she can give him a hug and ask why he thinks his mother didn’t want him, but she senses Mark isn’t there yet; she is able to read his subtle expressions and body language now. “Is that why you like going for cold water swims and subjecting me to them?”

“Contributing factor, sure, but I’d like to think that I’m dumb and reckless even without my mother’s influence,” he jokes. 

“Was her full name Jennifer? I’m just realizing…I don’t know. I don’t think I ever asked you that.”

“Genevieve,” Mark tells her. “I never heard anyone call her that though. We didn’t even include it in her obituary, or on her gravestone. She was always just Jenny. Her mother – my grandma – her name was Genevieve. She died during childbirth. Or right after, I guess. So Jenny was named for her, and raised by her dad…my grandpa. I never met him though, and Jenny didn’t talk about him much.”

“I’m sorry, Mark.” Addison’s fingers tighten around his. “For what you saw that day, and how it forced you to grow up way quicker than any little boy should, and just…for all the other struggles you’ve had with Jenny and your dad.”

“It’s okay.” He shakes his head. “I’m fine, Red. I just…I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.”

“I’m glad you did,” Addison whispers, leaning over the center console to kiss him.

. .  
. .

“Hey…uh. Why?” Mark’s greeting to his best friend shifts into a question when he sees the McDonald’s bag Derek is holding. Mark gestures to the couch, and Derek follows him, setting the bag on the coffee table. Mark realizes he needs to start functioning again, to claw himself out of this foggy, seventy-two hours’ worth of grief regarding the loss of his mother if only to get his best friends to stop showing up unannounced and then proceeding to hover with all these anxious _Do you want…? Do you need…?_ inquiries. Well. _That’s not entirely fair_ , Mark knows. It’s been nice, actually, to have them here, and at least Derek texted to say he was coming over. Mark is struggling with the _feelings_ part of this though. It was embarrassing enough crying in front of Addison two days ago.

“Sort of an autopilot thing,” Derek explains with a crooked grin. “It’s just what occurred to me and before my wife could tell me it was a weird idea and that you probably don’t want McDonald’s, it’s just…what happened. It’s like when you ransacked every garden along Peridot Drive when you came to see me after you heard about my dad. It was the best idea you had. You know, after Dad died, people did that thoughtful-but-cliché thing where they brought over food – so much food. Casseroles, pot pies, lasagna roll-ups…all the sympathy staples you can put away and heat-up later, you know? And one day Nancy absolutely lost it on my mom after another do-gooder dropped something off. She yelled, ‘Make them stop bringing casseroles. We just want fucking Happy Meals!’ And honestly, no one, probably not even Nancy herself, was expecting that outburst, but grief is weird to navigate and you end up constantly combusting at the beginning of the process. I think we all thought Mom was going to grab a bar of soap and demand to know where my ten-year-old sister heard that word…”

 _Probably from me,_ Mark thinks _._

“But instead my mom doubled over and started laughing, and then we all started to laugh…I can’t even tell you how _hard_ we laughed. It was like a release. I don’t know that Amy really got it – she was so little – but she laughed because everyone else was laughing.”

Mark grins. “Did you go to the golden arches afterwards?”

“We ended up going there for dinner, yeah. And I guess…on my way here, I was thinking about that and about Happy Meals. This is just fries and a Big Mac though. I figured you probably didn’t want a kids’ meal. Plus,” Derek jokes, “you’re thirty-three; I think the cutoff for Happy Meals is thirty-two.”

“I _might_ have wanted a Happy Meal if I knew what the toy was.” Mark exhales slowly, feeling the craters of grief shifting inside him, easing up for a moment somehow, and also feeling grateful for his best friend’s enduring presence. “Thank you, Derek,” he says. “You’re a good friend. I probably don’t tell you that enough, but you are.”

. .  
. .

Mark doesn’t take his eyes off the screen in front of him when Lynette comes into his office and asks him if _it’s time_ , but he offers a flick of his hand meant to be taken as a friendly dismissal. “You know you’re always free to leave when I’m done with patients for the day,” he tells her. “Go ahead.”

“No,” Lynette says, walking around his desk until she is standing next to him. “ _Time_ -time,” she says, pointing first to the space between her eyebrows, and then pressing her index fingers to the outer corners of her eyes.

Mark chuckles. “Definitely not time,” he says with certainty, but he pushes out of his chair to stand up and look closer anyway. He rakes his eyes over Lynette’s features, but as expected, finds no fault. She turned fifty-eight last summer, and like most of his patients, Mark’s subtle manipulations ensure she looks good, but also still realistically looks somewhere around her age group. “A few more months before we can go for another round of injections. You look great, Lynnie.”

“Just checking. I’ve got another one on the way, you know…so the less crow’s feet, the better. And don’t say the ‘g’ word.”

“ _Grandma_ or not…” Mark says, leaning away when Lynette playfully lifts a hand. “You definitely don’t need anything else. Not anytime soon. I like you too much to give you a forehead as a smooth as an ice rink.”

“Okay,” Lynette says, moving back to the other side of his desk to straighten out a few papers she apparently isn’t too happy with from an organizational perspective. “You’ve been acting different this week, Mark. These past few days you’ve been…I don’t know.” She shrugs, and looks up at him once she’s fixed the stack. “Perky, I guess.” 

“You sure you’re not just referencing a recent patient’s boob job?” Mark teases, but when his receptionist raises an inquiring eyebrow, he grows serious. “Fine,” he murmurs, a slow smile unfurling across his face. “You’re right. I’ve been...I’ve just been, well. She loves me. She told me she loves me.”

“Wow. Great, Mark,” Lynette says, voice full of sarcasm. 

“Oh, come on. You’re not even a little bit happy for me? Not even a _little_ perkiness?”

Lynette sighs. “I’m happy for you in the sense that you are a sometimes thoughtful, sometimes decent man who deserves to be loved.” Mark chooses not to comment on the fact that that’s not the best compliment he’s ever heard (it rings true though). “But in an overall sense,” Lynette continues, “in a much more _real_ sense…no, Mark. I’m not happy for you, mainly because I’m too busy being worried for you. That woman -”

“You know her name, Lynette,” Mark interrupts, half-amused and half-annoyed.

“That _woman_ telling you that she loves you is just going to make things more complicated. I know her name, yes. And I know the _husband’s_ name, too. And I have to tell you Mark, I really have to tell you, you’re in danger of becoming one of those women. Do you know what I mean?”

Mark can’t help but smirk even through the stress of this conversation. “I think you know that I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Lynette replies. “What I’m saying is, you’re almost surrendering to a fate, here. I shouldn’t be so stereotypical, but I said ‘one of those women’ because it usually _is_ a woman: the kind who carries on a relationship with a married man, fully convinced – either in spite of or because of what promises the married man makes – that one day the man is going to leave his wife. She just has to wait, and the wait will be worth it because one day they’ll be together. But that time…that time won’t come, because there’s always an excuse, always a reason not to rock the boat _just yet_. An anniversary is coming up. There’s a thing at work. There’s an in-law thing. The kids are still in school. And oh, now there’s another baby. And then someone is sick. And then…well. You get it. The excuses will keep coming. You’re the dirty mistress, Mark. That’s what I’m telling you. And maybe that’s better than being nothing, because at least this way you get _something_ with Addison, but…there might never be more than this.” Lynette swallows heavily, and Mark thinks about the fact that it’s been weeks since he has seen Olivia, his therapist, but damn if she and Lynette don’t always have similar expressions and outlooks when talking to him. “Is she going to leave Derek? What has she said about it?”

“She doesn’t want to talk about that,” Mark mumbles, feeling like an idiot.

“Of course not. And what about a baby?”

He blinks at her, still feeling like an idiot. “A baby...?”

“Are Addison and Derek _trying_? They want kids, right?”

“I…I don’t know.” His face is glowing hot with shame now. “I mean, yeah, I’m sure they do, but they’ve never really…talked about that with me. And it’s never come up when I’m with Addison.”

“Okay. I know you and Derek were classmates, but is Addison the same age as you guys?”

“Yeah. She’ll be…she’ll be thirty-eight in…in May…or June. May or June.” Mark realizes he doesn’t know. He’s never been good with birthdays. He knows his parents’ birthdays, Derek’s, and he knows Carolyn’s birthday is sometime in early December, but that’s it. Derek and Addison’s wedding anniversary is in June though, and Mark feels certain her birthday is close to that. So it has to be May. But…he should know this, shouldn’t he? Especially now?

“Trust me then: by this age, she’s given babies a fair amount of thought, and a woman like that…she’ll want a baby, Mark. She’ll want a baby with her _husband_. And once that happens, it’s going to be over…people can keep affairs going once children come into the picture, but I just envision that with Addison, a child is going to be the center of her entire world. She might still care for you, but if she’s not at work, she’ll be with her kid. And even if she _did_ have the time to see you, things with Derek could always end up getting back to a good place. Couples shouldn’t ever have a baby to save their relationship, but having had two kids myself, I can say that a baby can strengthen a marital bond, and honestly, sometimes a baby can just change a relationship for the better. The way things currently are for you and Addison, the exact way things currently are – that won’t last. It won’t stand the test of time, Mark. It just won’t.” 

“But…” Mark swallows thickly. His throat feels so tight. “But I love her.”

“I know you do,” Lynette replies gently. “And I’m not saying any of this to hurt you, because you know that I care about you and I want you to be happy, but I’m just trying to tell you that at some point you need to start to consider that loving Addison might mean letting her go.”

. .  
. .

“I just realized something.” Addison’s words filter slowly into Mark’s head the following evening. He blinks, coming to a bit more – he was starting to drift off. 

They have been apart for a few days, which always ends up making their encounters more feverish, as though they need to make up for lost time by screwing as many times as they can manage to, which inevitably makes Mark sleepy. This sort of multiple times approach has the opposite effect on Addison though, who still seems full of energy. Or she’s just not allowing herself to wind down, because she needs to be mindful of the time, since she can’t stay forever. Mark figures it’s the latter. That makes more sense. Plus, Lynette’s words are still blisteringly fresh in his head.

Mark presses his lips to her bare shoulder. “Hmm?” He prompts.

“When Amy – Amelia – overdosed and you came to St. Joseph’s…I was rude to you.” Addison rolls over to face him. “You said you didn’t want to see her like that and I…I think I accused you of being selfish. And the thing with Jenny…”

“To be fair, it’s not the first time you’ve accused me of being selfish,” Mark says while a smile creases his cheeks. “Probably won’t be the last, either.” He skims his thumb along the corner of Addison's mouth, and the motion eases away the expression of concern she is showing. “It’s fine, Red. You didn’t know. I still should have…you know, after you all left…I _did_ actually go in and see Amy. She was sleeping though, so it’s…it’s sort of like I wasn’t even there.”

Addison shakes her head in disagreement. “She’s very wise; I’ve always thought that. She might have known you were there in some way. Well…I should…I should probably get moving and hop in the shower. He’ll be home around eight.”

“Addison…what if…what if you left him? I’m not _asking_ you to leave him,” Mark adds quickly when her eyes widen. “I’m just saying…what if you _did_?” He knows it’s sort of the same thing though. Lynette is right; he might never get more than this. And Addison is never truly his as long as she’s someone else’s. There are always traces of her though, because Addison is everywhere, fucking everywhere it feels like, even when she’s not here. A long, fiery strand of her hair tangled around the stopper in his bathroom sink. A smudge of pomegranate-shaded lipstick on the rim of a wine glass. A pair of pearl drop earrings on his nightstand. A crumpled receipt she abandoned on his kitchen counter. But none of that holds water. If anything, those little things are just a reminder that she _isn’t_ his. 

“Other than the fact that telling him I fell in love with his best friend is unspeakably screwed up and cruel, it just…” Addison inhales tensely. “If I were to leave Derek by way of telling him the truth…you wouldn’t be friends with him anymore, Mark. You wouldn’t be a family – and Derek is your family.”

“You’re my family too.”

“Mark. Listen though. You wouldn’t have _anything_ to do with Derek after this. He would never forgive you, or me. He would never forgive us.” And Addison wouldn’t blame Derek for that. She doesn’t think you _can_ forgive someone for something like this.

And it’s not like she hasn’t thought about leaving. Sometimes ending her marriage is all she thinks about, especially over the past few weeks. She thought about it _extensively_ when she arrived back at the brownstone after her weekend away with Mark (or to Derek, her weekend away with Savvy). Derek was home when she got in, and he seemed genuinely happy to see her.

“I missed you,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms.

“I missed you, too,” Addison replied, words muffled into his neck, even though the truth was: _I didn’t even think about you._ Addison couldn’t even feel a semblance of excitement about the fact that her husband _missed_ her, which at one point would have been all she wanted. She felt nervous in his embrace, wondering if she smelled like Mark. They kissed for a bit in the parking garage before they went their separate ways. Long, slow kisses. The kind people in love share. The kind people who have all the time in the world share – or people who _wish_ they had all the time in the world, at least. 

“Glad you’re back, Addie,” Derek said when she slipped out of his hug, citing the need for a shower. _I’m not glad I’m back._ “Want to do French food tonight?”

“Yeah. Sounds great.”

And while she was in the shower, Addison practiced in her head what she would say, and later that night while curled in bed next to Derek, she practiced some more. All the words sounded awful though, and even now, lying here with her lover, there’s just no getting around the concept that it sounded awful because it _is_ awful. And the fact that it’s not just scratching an itch, that she’s somehow desperately and irrevocably in love with Mark…that makes it so much worse. No. She’s much too scared to go through with confessing to Derek. She can’t do it now, at least. 

Mark clears his throat, jarring her from her internal angst. “Derek no longer being in my life would absolutely suck and I really, really do feel bad for hurting him, but…you’re worth it. And you’re kind of my best friend too, Addie. But I know that -”

“I don’t think I can leave him, Mark. Not yet. I…I don’t know that I even know _how_ to leave him. Not just the telling him part, but just…just…” Addison shakes her head, overwhelmed. The idea of severing a _life_ with someone is too upsetting to contemplate. “Can we please not talk about it anymore? There are plenty of other things we could be doing.” She smirks suggestively and moves to straddle him, grateful they are both still naked. Fuck it, she can get home after Derek tonight. It will be far easier to create an excuse about a patient to cover for her absence than to tell the truth.

“Well,” Mark murmurs, groping her breasts when she stoops to kiss him. “I’m not going to complain about what’s happening right now even though you’re _clearly_ just using your body to distract me.” And if Addison doesn’t want to talk about her marriage right now, then fine. Mark can work with that. Hell, he can feel it working already from an anatomical perspective. They’ll make each other feel good. The way things currently are won’t last, but for now, this _is_ where they’re at, and it’s better – so much better – than nothing.

“Mmm.” Addison adjusts above him so that she can drag herself over one of his thighs. “We don’t even need to get in the shower. I’m already so wet. That’s what you do to me.” 

Mark flips their positions and swallows Addison’s delighted gasp between his lips when he pushes inside her. He kisses her hungrily, nearly bruisingly-hard and it really does turn him on, there’s no denying that, but he’s aware that Addison’s language is disconcerting. She’s no prude, but she never talks like that, so the words just don’t sound natural coming from her. 

Now, _Charlene_ , on the other hand. There’s a woman who can talk dirty.

A few days later, Mark inadvertently makes eye contact with Addison when he slips into an on-call room near the nurses’ station with the Peds nurse he’s slept with a handful of times over the past few months. Addison looks a little sad when she peers up from the chart she’s reading and sees him. 

Mark wonders if she can tell that he’s sad, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes: 
> 
> Derek suggesting French food for dinner…I mean, they gotta eat, but this was a small nod to Grey’s 2x12, when Addison really wanted Derek to get into the holiday spirit with her and he was absolutely. not. having. it., and she suggested, “French food and Scottish catalogs tonight around nine?” And LMAO at how specific this is. I can’t imagine Derek ever being the one to SAY they should get French food, but I went with it for the purposes of this fic.
> 
> A lot of stuff with Mark and his background was alluded to in chapters 4 and 13 (if you’re so inclined to skim back over that to verify), and obviously I’ve taken a LOT of creative liberties here with Mark’s backstory, but hey, you’re either here for the angst or you’re not. What we do know from canon is Mark’s parents were absent a lot/went out at night, Mark considered Derek to be his family, and his mom died at some point (no indication of when, but this was mentioned in Grey’s 6x20).
> 
> “Hate-hate” is a nod to Grey’s 2x13, when Derek brings trout into the trailer and Addison reacts like any reasonable sane person would: “I hate this! Hate, hate! I hate this trailer!” (How long Addison tolerated the trailer life was truly a testament to how much she loved Derek and wanted to make it work).
> 
> The Amelia quick engagement storyline did not happen (she saved a somewhat quick engagement for later with Owen Hunt, if memory serves), but I needed a reason for Derek and Addison to have a blow-out, and this FELT like the sort of thing Amelia would have done, so.
> 
> In Grey’s 2x18, Mark refers to himself (and Meredith) as a “dirty mistress.”
> 
> In Grey’s 5x12, when we first meet Derek’s mom (never gonna be over when Derek tells Meredith that her ponytail is alarmingly high), Carolyn Shepherd tells her son that he “see[s] things in black and white.” 
> 
> Other weird references thrown in because I needed something health-related and something smell-related, so why not: Kate Walsh’s brain tumor from a few years ago was a meningioma about the size of a lemon (what the governor’s wife had – more on that below), and I also tried to model Addison’s perfume after KW’s “Boyfriend” (in the ocean scene), but yeahhhhh, perfumes are stupid hard to describe and I also needed an ingredient Mark could easily pick out, not like “top notes of dark plum and myrrh” because what???
> 
> Different first name, but I chose the last name Grant for the governor/governor’s wife (referenced in the first flashback of this chapter), as a nod to another Shondaland universe: President Grant of Scandal, AKA ONE OF THE MOST TOXIC MALE CHARACTERS EVER DON’T @ ME ON THIS IF YOU DISAGREE. The follow-up, female President Grant was much better.
> 
> Mark admits in Grey’s 3x12 he isn’t good with remembering birthdays (technically his answer was, “No. I don’t know. Sometimes,” which I worked into this fic…thanks Markie, that was definitely clear). And in this same scene, when Callie asked Mark if he likes his family and considers himself a family guy, he said, “I don’t really have a family. Derek was my family.”
> 
> Thank you for reading! We are inching closer to these two dummies being caught (because you knew that was coming) and then everything exploding. My goal is for a happy-but-realistic ending. The past year was crappy enough without us needing additional sad stuff. I suspect this fic will end up being between 25 and 30 chapters, but I can’t hold myself to that because my ability to stick to an outline is about the same as Mark and Addison’s ability to lock doors: it just doesn’t really happen. :)


	18. Carry the Weight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric in the song “Enough to Go By,” by Vienna Teng. Excellent, excellent lyrics for these two fools.

**Chapter 18. Carry the Weight**

“You can stay tonight, right?” Mark asks while stretching out his limbs and releasing a happy, satisfied post-coital yawn.

“Yes,” Addison replies, smiling widely enough that it almost hurts. “I can stay.”

She told Mark this earlier, but she likes that he asked again, that maybe he asked again just to hear her say _yes_ again. Derek is in Boston; he has been a bit more eager in the past few months to assist neighboring (or not-so-neighboring) hospitals with procedures, and has also spoken at conferences and done guest lectures at several med schools. Addison thinks he does it because it allows him to be out of the house more. Or he just wants to be on the presentation and lecture circuit more, maybe. That’s the thing with Addison’s husband, she knows: Derek can never just _rest_ , if only for a moment, when it comes to his career. There is always more to chase. 

She isn’t sure what procedure Derek is leading at UMass. She basically tuned him out as soon as he told her what days he would be gone. All she could think was that this meant time with _Mark_ , privileged time that didn’t come with a calculated leave his apartment by eight PM, leave his apartment by nine PM, whatever sort of plan. Addison thought of just having Mark come over to the brownstone tonight, but in the end, figured it would be easier and less guilt-inducing ( _less_ , but still plenty prevalent) just to go to his apartment. Mark slept over at the brownstone once (albeit, there wasn’t much sleeping), and they have had non-sleepover sex there twice this month, both times Derek was on-call for the night and crashing at NYP. One of the times Addison and Mark couldn’t even make it to the bedroom; they ended up going at it frantically on the living room floor. The friction burns and jewel-colored bruises were still worth it though.

“By the way, how’s Charlene doing?” Addison asks. She smiles when Mark pulls the comforter up around them; he knows that she likes to snuggle back under it almost immediately after sex. “She was with me today on a case where my patient had an amniotic fluid embolism and she did a really great -”

“Addison,” he cuts her off with enough force in his voice that her head tilts back against her pillow in surprise. “Don’t do that,” he says, agitation brimming in his tone.

“Do…do what?” 

“That thing where you’re asking about her, but really you’re just fishing because you want me to talk about her, or, like, give you _intel_ or something. I don’t want to talk about her. Especially not with you.”

Addison presses her lips together. She honestly wasn’t sure _what_ compelled her to ask about Charlene, but now that Mark’s offered up this retort, of _course_ that’s why. She wonders when she became so predictable, so damn easy to read. “You’re right,” she offers quietly in response. “Sorry.”

Mark lightly touches her elbow, commiserating and apologizing all at once. “The fact that I sometimes still have sex with Charlene and…” he lets the rest of the sentence retreat. He doesn’t really need to say _and other women_. Addison knows, even though she doesn’t ask. “I don’t do it to hurt you or make you feel bad, Red. And I’m always careful. You know those things, right?”

“Yeah. I know.”

Mark waits for more. Maybe she’ll ask _Why do you do it then?_ and he will try to give her Olivia and Lynette’s theories, as well as what he’s always known about himself: he doesn’t want to get hurt and he doesn’t want to be alone. And if he _is_ going to get hurt, he doesn’t want to be the one who gets hurt _first_. Addison doesn’t ask though. Mark isn’t convinced he actually owes her an explanation anyway…he thinks that he just sort of wants to owe her one, perhaps? She’s more the cheater than he’s ever been – _if_ what he’s doing when she’s not with him can even be considered cheating. It’s not, right? Mark is saved from further concerns on the subject though when the self-timer lights unexpectedly come on. 

He watches as Addison rolls over onto her back to take in the blue galaxy and sprinkle of laser dots now waving above them on Mark’s ceiling. _Saved?_ he thinks. _Maybe this is actually just really fucking embarrassing._ The projector with its fiber optic lights is never, ever plugged in when Mark has company, but he was alone last night, and forgot to unplug it this morning.

“Whoa,” Addison says quietly. 

“Yeah. I never thought this would be what I mean when I say this while in bed with a beautiful woman, but…this has never happened before.”

Addison giggles. “Well, I imagine _that_ has never happened before, either. Not with us, at least.”

“No,” Mark says with a burgeoning smirk. He shifts onto his back and reaches for the remote control on his nightstand. “But this is…well, I can tell you that it’s a very manly galaxy projector, and staring at the ceiling with this on somehow helps me fall asleep, but let’s be real: an argument could also be made that this is just a high-tech nightlight for little kids who are fighting bedtime because they’re scared of the dark. It’s kinda cool though. See, there’s all these different colors and settings. A college kid would probably love the hell out of this for house parties and stuff.” Mark holds the remote out towards the orb-shaped projector on the floor on his side of the bed, and cycles through a few settings, showing Addison the various colors, both with and without the neon green laser dots affixed to the ceiling and walls. “I like this one best though,” he adds, pushing at a few of the buttons until just a deep shade of blue, almost storm-like, is hovering above them. And then he selects the motion button so that the sky is slowly moving above them. There’s something comforting about the swaying motions, almost maternal, even; it makes Mark think of what it might feel like to be in a rocking chair. Not that that’s something he remembers, and he suspects Jenny probably didn’t rock him all that often as a baby and toddler anyway.

“Me too. I’m not about to hear whale songs, am I? I’m just kidding,” Addison says this quickly, even though Mark is amused at the comment and doesn’t take offense. She knows it’s a habit, to sometimes clarify her meaning – Derek _does_ have a sense of humor, but he doesn’t respond well to jokes that poke fun at him. Addison feels Mark’s fingertips brush against hers under the comforter, so she folds her hand inside of his. “I really like this; it’s peaceful. It doesn’t really make me think of a galaxy or a starry night though…it makes me think of being at bottom the ocean, or like a swimming pool or something. Except you’re able to breathe just fine. You’re not going to drown.”

“I can see that.” They are quiet for a moment, and then Mark clears his throat. “Addison…” he squeezes her hand a little tighter. “About us…I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you, but I don’t think…I don’t think I can wait forever.” 

“I know.” Addison swallows heavily. “I know.” 

Words dissipate after that; there just isn’t much to say. 

Instead, they continue to watch the silky, ghost-like movement of the fake water above them. It’s soothing, and makes Addison feel like she is wrapped inside a really good dream. A really good dream with _Mark_.

She just isn’t quite sure what to do when she wakes from this beautiful dream and is faced with reality again. 

. .  
. .

Addison blinks as a lengthy shadow fans across the textbook she has been paging through. She goes back to the previous sentence to reorient herself, assuming the clouds have simply blocked out the sun. It’s chilly in Washington Heights this afternoon, but reading in one of the campus courtyards won’t be an option for much longer due to the weather, so she is determined to savor this time. When the shadow remains in place though and a gruff _Hey_ pipes over the languid breeze, Addison lifts her head. 

“Oh. Hey,” she says, glancing up to see Mark standing near the edge of the blanket, close but not quite directly in front of her. “I didn’t think I’d see you until class tomorrow. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. You by yourself?”

“Not for much longer,” Addison replies. “I just got out of Pathology. Naomi and Sam are on their way; they’re grabbing cookies and coffee from that café near the Health Sciences building, and I’m holding down the fort.” She gestures dramatically at the threadbare blanket she has spread out under a maple tree whose leaves are beginning to transition to the crinkling, crunchy stage. “You can join us if you want,” she adds, and Mark grins and sits down beside her. 

“I can’t stay long,” Mark says, “but I saw you when I was passing through the courtyard and I wanted to ask…are you free tomorrow night?” This prompts Addison to emit a soft, surprised _Oh_. Her cheeks turn a little pink at the implication that seems to be hanging there, and then Mark quickly clarifies, “No, not – not with me. I wanted to see if you’re available because Derek wants to ask you out.”

Addison’s blush only intensifies, but a wide smile accompanies it. “If Derek wants to ask me out,” she says, “then he needs to ask me himself.”

“He will. I’m not the messenger, I swear. And he doesn’t know I’m here; he’d kill me if I knew I was talking to you about this. I’m just…testing the waters, I guess, to gauge your interest?” Mark briefly lifts his shoulders. “Derek was – you wouldn’t guess it, looking at him, but he was shy in high school, and a bit of a nerd. Like, wore a band uniform, weighed about a hundred and ten pounds, hadn’t figured out hair products so he had an afro…and he was super tongue-tied in the very rare instances he talked to girls he thought were cute. He’s not like that now, and could basically win beauty awards or something for that damn hair of his, but I think he still carries a little of his high school self around with him, so I just…I figured if you _weren’t_ interested, I could maybe try and steer him in another direction.”

“That’s nice of you – you’re a good friend, Mark. And you know, I had a band uniform in high school, too. Plus, braces and a lisp, and my entire face would turn as red as the hair on my head when I so much as _looked_ at a boy.” Addison nearly shudders at the memory. She’s come a long way, since then. “Luckily for myself and Derek, high school didn’t last forever.”

Mark grins. “Wow…I love that you were _also_ a nerd. And he’ll love that, too.”

“I’m sure you were like the A.C. Slater of your high school, but know this, Mark Sloan: you’re in med school, so that makes you a little bit of a nerd, too.”

“True. Well, I’m sure Derek will talk to you tomorrow afternoon...God, I hope he’s _normal_ about it and doesn’t just straight up lean over our poor cadaver to ask if you want to get dinner. But, wait, we got distracted. I’m just realizing…you didn’t actually answer me. If he asks you out…you’re gonna say ‘yes,’ right?”

“Yes. I’m going to say ‘yes.’”

“Yes to what?” Naomi asks as she approaches with the top of a white bakery bag clutched in her fist. “Sam’s waiting on the coffee,” she adds as she sits down on Addison’s other side.

“Nothing.” Mark nods his head in greeting to Naomi. “I was actually just leaving. I have a study group I need to get to.”

“Wait a minute. _We_ have a study group,” Naomi states. And Addison knows that it really is a _we_ now – she, Naomi, Sam, Derek, Mark. Their Gross Anatomy class and their cadaver, Mr. Mulligan (named by Derek) have tied them together. They have formed something of a friendship outside of class, and although it does involve a lot of studying, sometimes there is also beer, Chinese food, and non-study-related topics to bond over. “Are you cheating on us?” Naomi asks, a teasing smirk extending across her face.

“Me?” Mark points to his chest and arranges his expression into one of mock horror. “Cheat? I’d _never_. This is a different kind of study thing. The one-on-one kind, if you know what I’m saying.”

Addison rolls her eyes. “We know what you’re saying, Mark.”

“I figured as much.” Mark pushes back to his feet. “Well, I better get going or I’ll be late. See ya in class tomorrow, Naomi and Red.”

Naomi glances over at Addison. “When did ‘Red’ start?” She asks once Mark is out of earshot.

“I don’t know,” she admits with a mild shrug. “He’s the only one who calls me that, and I don’t hate it enough to tell him to cut it out. I’d say something if it was ‘Ginger’ or ‘Carrot Top,’ believe me, but ‘Red’ is one I’m okay with.” Addison’s eyes scrunch while she searches over her friend’s face. “What? You look funny…what is it?”

“Did he ask you out?”

“Did who ask you out?” Sam asks, coming up behind them. He hands the coffee carrier to Naomi, and then sits down next to her. 

“Mark Sloan.” Addison provides the answer while Naomi distributes their trio of coffees and starts passing around the bag filled with chocolate chip cookies. “And no. We were just talking. He was seeing if I had any interest in Derek, because I guess…” she grins happily, allowing herself to feel excited about the possibility of it. “I guess Derek is thinking of asking me out.”

Naomi smiles encouragingly. “Oh, _good_ ,” she says. “That’s good.”

“And it would be bad if it was Mark?” Addison asks, genuinely intrigued by the now-present relief on Naomi’s face.

“Very bad. He’s, like, a steamy kind of hot, but -”

“Damn,” Sam interrupts with a forced laugh. “Sitting right here, Nai.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” Naomi indulgently pats Sam’s hand. “Mark just doesn’t seem like dating material though. Derek is sweet and friendly and will probably treat you like a princess. And Mark is…Mark is _nice_ , but sort of a player, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I completely agree,” Addison admits. “Plus, it seems like he’s already making his way through the other available females in our program. I know he already has or at least _had_ something going on with Emily and with Heather S., and obviously he was just about to go off and meet someone else…he’s definitely not dating material or boyfriend material.”

“I thought it was the other Heather.”

“Oh no. He got to Covey, too? I thought she…” Addison wracks her brain for additional details. She and that Heather have Foundations of Clinical Medicine together, and Addison has a vague recollection of a boyfriend being mentioned. “I thought Heather Covey has a boyfriend.”

“My general impression is that someone’s relationship status doesn’t matter to Mark. I’m not trying to be rude,” Sam adds quickly. “I like the guy. But that’s…that’s just what I think after having known him for a few weeks.”

Addison nods in agreement. “I think you’re right,” she decides. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about it. It’s Mark’s best friend who is going to ask me out, hopefully. Not Mark.” 

. .  
. .

“So tomorrow…” Savvy begins while she fingers the muslin swaddle currently wrapped around her sleeping daughter. “Tomorrow when they discharge me and I’m free to go home and just like…holy crap, be someone’s _parent_ , am I just…supposed to pretend that I know what I’m doing and that I won’t break her or drop her or something?”

“Wow. Maybe let’s _not_ share every single thought in front of someone whose profession makes her a mandated reporter, Sav,” Weiss hastily says, but he’s smiling and laughing, too. He has the _new dad_ look: nervous, excited, in complete awe of his wife. He traces his thumb against one of their daughter’s puffy, velvet-soft cheeks. Addison sees it every day, how couples fall in love all over again as soon as a baby is placed in their waiting arms. And when a baby was handed over to Savvy and Weiss about two hours ago, it was no exception.

Addison sees the transformation in Savvy, too, that profound moment when every cell in a woman’s body is forever altered. Savvy is no longer just a woman – she’s a mother now, and always will be. And such a concept is exhilarating and terrifying and… _I want that_. _I want that, too._ The thought is striking Addison over and over. She has always wanted to be a mother, yes, and has sort of taken it for granted that one day she would be, but now…time is more finite, now. And it’s not just because one of her best friends is holding a baby, which inevitably comes with a sense of left out-ness, the need to take stock of what you have and don’t have, and the overwhelming realization that some of the people around you are just such _grownups_ , even if you are a grownup yourself. The weight of her desire is just…it just _is_ now. Addison feels it.

And once you feel it, you can’t _not_ feel it.

“I promise you won’t break or drop her, Sav,” Addison says. “I’m gonna go track down Derek now that you guys are all settled. Then we’ll give you some privacy – or at least the chance to get a little sleep, hopefully. The last time I saw my husband he was in the hallway near your birthing room in between surgeries…a few minutes before you had that one contraction where you nearly broke Weiss’s hand.”

Savvy laughs softly at this. “It really hurt, okay?” 

Addison excuses herself, and walks over to the wing on the other side of the nurses’ station, where she last saw Derek. It takes a few laps around the L&D floor, but eventually she does run into him when he’s coming out of the elevator.

“It’s a girl,” she informs him, nearly breathless with excitement. “Phoebe. Phoebe Elizabeth. She’s absolutely adorable.”

“A girl.” Derek grins broadly. “Weiss thought it was going to be a girl, but Savvy – those courtroom arguing skills – she was so sure it was a boy, that she had me sure, too.”

“Oh, you’ll find that she’s changed her tune now. All of a sudden Sav is saying she was certain it was a girl the whole time…she’s like a kid who realizes they’re about to lose the board game, so they start changing the rules last minute. C’mon though.” Addison flicks her palm forward, and Derek follows after her. “I’ll take you to see them; we moved them to a postpartum room a few minutes ago. You all done for the day?”

“I am. The hovering earlier…it was weird, right?”

“Less weird, more just very mid-century of you. Hey, Derek…” Addison takes a deep breath and tugs on his forearm. Once she has verified no one is within earshot, she says, “I know it’s not for like another nine weeks, but let’s plan to go away for our anniversary.”

Derek smiles, albeit in a strained way. “Hamptons?” He asks, assuming she has already decided on their behalf. 

“No,” Addison replies, trying to comfort herself with the knowledge that that smile was strained because Derek hates the Hamptons. She is too lost in this moment – lost in the anticipation – to allow herself to consider the other reasons her husband might be forcing a smile. “Well, I don’t know,” she says with a lazy shrug. “You pick. And whenever we get where we want to go, let’s…let’s start trying. I need to refill my birth control prescription around that time anyway, so I just…” she smiles. “I’ll just plan not to do that.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, and this time his smile is genuine. 

They have sex that night. The best sex they have had in a long time, Addison thinks when he rolls his hips against hers and she lets out a genuine moan. Her husband is present, loving, attentive tonight. _Might as well practice_ , Derek joked while he was unbuttoning her blouse. They have always talked about _this spring_ being the start of their baby-making adventure, but talking and putting a plan into action are two very different things. 

“Don’t tell anyone that we’re going to start trying soon,” Addison says afterwards while Derek is lightly rubbing one of her shoulders. What she really means is, _Don’t tell Mark_. “I just…” she adds when Derek furrows his eyebrows, in need of a more thorough explanation, “I’m not going to tell Savvy or Nai or anyone I’m close with that we’re going to start trying…people get weird about it. So maybe just don’t mention it to anyone.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees. “That’s true.”

He falls asleep easily, because he’s happy – the men in Addison’s life always seem to be able to do this. And even when they _aren’t_ happy, or are at least more stressed out or some other emotion than they are happy, they are capable of turning their thoughts off and still getting a decent night’s sleep. Addison has no such luck. 

She thinks of how many times in the past two or three years that she has thought that Derek wants a baby, but perhaps it’s more about having a baby than it is about having a baby with _her_. Addison has had this thought so many times…and now, has she gone the same way as her husband? Is she a hypocrite? Has she misplaced her feelings? Derek will be a great father. He’s a great guy. And yes, those are solid reasons to want to have a baby with him. But Addison will never truly believe that she wants to have a baby with Derek because he’s a great _husband_. Because he’s not. Not anymore.

Not that she’s a great wife. Not anymore.

Addison begins to chew on the inside of her right cheek, gnawing and worrying over the damp, soft skin long enough to wake up with a sore in her mouth after a fragile, restless sleep. She feels so, so confused. And sort of alone, too.

. .  
. .

After Addison has cleaned up the blood in the wine cellar and showered (it will take several more showers before she actually feels clean and no longer smells the bleach on her hands), she wanders through Bizzy’s office. She searched it earlier in an attempt to find a note or any sort of clue that Bizzy planned to kill herself, but there was no note and there was no clue. And now Addison is back again. The lack of evidence filled her with both relief and despair, but this time around, it’s not a foolish undertaking; Addison no longer expects to find anything that points to why Bizzy did what she did yesterday morning, but she is going to stand in here until anything about her mother, suicide attempt aside, makes any freaking sense. _Which_ , Addison realizes as another wave of sadness crashes through her, _kind of makes this a fool’s errand after all_. _I don’t know anything about her. She didn’t want me to – doesn’t want me to._

She traces her fingertips over the hardy spines of classic novels on the bookshelf, and by chance, catches sight of a gold bookmark shaped like an anchor poking out of _This Side of Paradise_. The choice surprises her; Addison can’t specifically pinpoint what Bizzy’s favorite book or who her favorite author might be, but she never would have taken her mother for an F. Scott Fitzgerald fan.

Addison pulls the novel off the shelf and opens it to the page that’s been marked. She scans down until she sees the line that Bizzy faintly underlined in pencil: “They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”

It’s not a sign _exactly_ , but it’s still something, isn’t it? _Is that what this was like,_ she thinks, _between Bizzy and Susan? Slipped briskly. An intimacy. Never recovered._

She puts the book back on the shelf and tries to pretend she never looked at it.

The words stick with her though. And approximately three years later, they certainly apply to her own life.

. .  
. .

Near the end of April, Naomi calls and shares news that Addison never, ever saw coming: Naomi and Sam are separating. It nearly steals Addison’s breath away to hear this, and while Naomi shares bits and pieces of the events of the past few days, Addison finds herself hit with unexpected, perhaps irrational thoughts: _I have friends who have decided to get a divorce? I have friends who can do that?_

“…and we’re planning to tell Maya this weekend,” Naomi adds glumly.

“Oh, Nai,” Addison says. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, _so_ sorry. I can…I can come out there…”

“Don’t be silly,” Naomi says insistently. “It’s okay; stay where you are, Addie. I’d love to see you in person at some point – it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? – but you don’t need to come out here right now. I mean, you’re probably just gonna now receive the occasional hysterical phone call from me and you’ll probably have to tell me to repeat myself because I’ll be shoveling cheesecake into my mouth at the same time I’m talking and crying, but I’ll…I’ll manage. I mean, I have Maya; obviously I don’t have any choice _but_ to manage. And you know, the thing is, there wasn’t…there wasn’t even fighting. I didn’t even _know_ Sam was unhappy, Addie. We’re busy with our jobs and running the practice and of course we’re always busy with our kid, so yeah, maybe we could have checked in with each other more and prioritized the marriage more, but I still didn’t know anything was _wrong_. There are _always_ reasons to divorce, but the reasons _not_ to divorce are supposed to outweigh the differences and flaws and all the other crap. And I’ll be honest, I don’t even know if _Sam_ knows why he’s doing what he’s doing, but I don’t…I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want me or who isn’t happy around me, you know?”

“You don’t think there’s a chance you guys can work through this?” Addison asks quietly. She wonders though if maybe she is asking this more for herself than for the sake of two of her good friends. “I’m on your side no matter what, but -” 

“I’m not sure,” Naomi admits. “I’m not saying it’s _completely_ off the table, but just…I don’t know. People should be with people who are in love with them, and apparently…apparently Sam doesn’t feel that way about me anymore. I think the moment you start to give up, that’s the moment you lose. So I don’t…I don’t know if marriage counseling is something that can help. I mean…you have to _want_ to save the thing in order to actually save the thing, right? The work has to happen on both sides, and it just seems like…” Naomi sighs noisily into the phone. “Sorry. I actually need to leave in a few to pick up Maya from basketball. I didn’t want to put off telling you any longer though. Can we…can we talk tomorrow though, if you’re around?”

“Yes,” Addison quickly replies. “Yes, of course we can. That gives me enough time to pick up cheesecake, too,” she tries to joke. “We can talk and eat and cry at the same time. But I’m…I’m here for you, Nai. I’m here for you, no matter what. And the offer still stands for me to come out there – or you can come here, too. Bring Maya even, if you want to.”

Derek is still at his practice. Not that that matters, because Addison doesn’t…she shakes her head, confused and upset. She really, _really_ just wants Mark right now. She types out a text and sends it off, hoping he is available so that she can come over. He usually is. The need for comfort right now is just all-consuming…even though it would just be sexual comfort and Addison would have to hide the fact that she’s a little shaken. She feels like she can talk to Mark about almost anything, but she _can’t_ talk about Sam and Naomi’s marriage with him because it would inevitably lead to having to discuss her own marriage. Her own marriage, which, ever since the baby discussion, has been _good_. Derek is working a bit later tonight, but he called to let Addison know that, and it just feels like he has been _around_ more the past few days. They have so, so far to go as a couple if they want to get back to where they once were, if it’s even possible to _be_ who they once were – but right now Derek seems devoted, accessible. And maybe it’s _only_ because of the baby, because there’s something to hope and look forward to in the tunnel of gloomy darkness that has become their marriage, but it still stands to reason that if the opposite of indifference is supposed to be love, then right now there’s love in their marriage. That’s something that could be built upon. 

_MS: Can’t tonight. Tomorrow?_

_Can’t tonight_. Addison stares sadly at Mark’s response, and holds down the appropriate button to turn her phone off. She knows what _can’t tonight_ means: he either has a woman over or is out and _about_ to have a woman over. He always provides her with a little more detail when there’s a harmless reason: _Can’t tonight. A coworker got tickets to an Islanders game. Can’t tonight. Lynette and her husband asked me to have dinner with them_. _Can’t tonight. Covering a shift in the burn center._

And the fact that Mark apparently _does_ have company tonight…if Addison truly wanted to make things work with Derek, to build their marriage back up from whatever is left of it…if she truly wanted to, then the pain that crashes through her heart about the idea of Mark putting his hands on another woman, maybe stroking another woman’s hair, maybe lying under a simulated ocean with another woman, maybe one day loving another woman and telling her so – that sharp pain wouldn’t _be_ there. 

Addison walks over to the grand wall bookcase flanking the wall that separates her living room from the kitchen; she has a particular purpose in mind. Once she gets there, she studies a photo on the second shelf from her wedding day. Derek and Mark are leaning in to talk to one another. Mark’s hand is on Derek’s shoulder. They are caught mid-conversation, perhaps mid-laugh. Addison is standing a little behind Derek, and her gaze shifted to the camera right as the photographer snapped the shot. When they saw this photo later, Addison wasn’t sure what was going on in that moment with her face (probably just the exhaustion, because while their wedding truly was a fairytale, it was an exhausting one and they had to smile for so, _so_ many pictures), but her expression looks a little annoyed. As though Derek and Mark’s mere presence exasperated her. As though it was Derek and Mark’s special day, not hers. As though she was the third wheel. It’s honestly one of their favorites though, and Addison and Derek couldn’t stop laughing when they got the photos from their wedding photographer and came across this one. They framed it immediately, and gave a copy to Mark. And even now, with stress and anxiety rumbling like a thunderstorm through Addison’s stomach, the thing is, it _still_ brings a smile to her face.

She has carried so much of her childhood with her. It’s the summation, the definition, of everything around her. She is constantly trying to fill a Bizzy-and-Captain-shaped hole in her heart. She fixes people and saves people because she doesn’t always trust that she is able to fix and save herself – from _what_ , Addison isn’t particularly sure, but the sentiment stands. And she knows that she needs love and attention; she is positively ravenous for both.

Addison’s thumb pushes at the bottom right corner of the picture frame, adjusting it. The three of them are so interwoven in one another’s lives – they have been this way for such a long time, initially brought together as their surgeons-in-training fingers trimmed away the deep fascia, worked over the tendons, and took turns holding the cadaver’s still, soundless heart in their hands. They observed for the first time how closely and intimately knit every structure in the body is – every muscle, every organ, every web-thin tissue – and they realized with such earnestness that such a wondrous concept extends to _all_ bodies.

 _Bodies are made to heal_. Addison said this to Mark a few months ago, before they slept together for the first time. They had been talking about Bizzy. _Bodies are made to heal_. 

What about heartbreak though? Are bodies made to heal from that? Reasonably, Addison knows that _yes_ , even then…but it’s hard to see your way out of something when you are so, so far down in it. So how can Addison really even begin to untangle all these threads? And even if she _did_ …what would be the end result? If she did choose to leave Derek, if she did choose to forever alter the landscape of her life, that doesn’t necessarily mean things would work out with Mark. And Addison doesn’t even know what _working out_ in regards to Mark is supposed to _look_ like, and something of giant concern is that Mark doesn’t really “do” serious relationships, and he certainly doesn’t “do” faithfulness. Plus, Addison isn’t sure what _she_ wants, either. Yes, she wants Mark day-to-day, but that isn’t really addressing what she _actually_ wants with him and from him. She isn’t sure.

She could end up alone, and because of ending up alone, she will probably come to the conclusion that she is not _enough_. It’s always been her fear, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes: 
> 
> Derek in the hallway while Savvy was in labor was a nod to a scene in Grey’s 2x16 when Richard, Derek, and George were lingering around while Addison was in a room examining Bailey’s cervix. Addison, upon seeing them: “The gathering of men outside the delivery room…how mid-century of you.”
> 
> Grey’s 3x06, when Nancy Shepherd visits and the subject of Mark’s tennis partner comes up (I mention the absolute crap out of the tennis partner and his wife in MTGOF, if you read that one as well. Weird references are fun.)  
> Nancy: “What are you doing here, Mark? Are you trying to torture him?” *and then patiently waits while Mark lists out his excuses*  
> Mark: “He’s my family, Nancy. Plus…I needed a change of pace. Plus…I slept with my tennis partner’s wife and he went out and bought a gun.”  
> Nancy: “…there it is.”
> 
> Grey’s Anatomy, 3x23. Addison and Sam discussing Sam and Naomi’s divorce in the backdoor pilot that executives cutely tried to tell us was not in fact a backdoor pilot.  
> Addison: “Was there a lot of fighting or...?”  
> Sam: “Hardly ever. Honestly...it was bad, what I did. I have no good reason. I woke up one day...and I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t even a choice. I had a thought...next thing you know...I’m burning it all down. I left her. I don’t know why. I don’t know why. What kind of a person does that?”  
> Addison: “Hell if I know. And I did it, too.”
> 
> (I could quote more about this, especially about the damage control that was season 6 Naomi/Sam in Private Practice, but look, I don’t care enough to go quote hunting. Oh, and Naomi does love cheesecake.)
> 
> Grey’s Anatomy, 4x08, in an incredibly touching Derek and Bailey scene where Bailey is describing her high school experience, and it turns out that Derek’s wasn’t so different:  
> Derek: “In high school, I was 110 pounds, and I hadn’t yet figured out hair product, so I had a big afro, and, uh, I had acne. And I, too…wore a band uniform. Sax.”  
> Bailey: “Oboe.”  
> Derek: “And I would’ve been honored to take a girl like you to Homecoming.”
> 
> Addison to her therapist, season 5, Private Practice: “Every day I deliver a baby, and every day I see...that moment of change. You know, that moment when every cell in a woman’s body is transformed. And whatever happens – whether the baby is sick or healthy, happy or unhappy, lives or dies – whatever happens, that woman will never be just a woman again. She will always be a mother. She’s transformed. And it’s exhilarating and terrifying and…I want that.”
> 
> (Also, this chapter very much felt like a swipe up/product placement for a galaxy night light projector lololol, but I promise I did not receive any sort of compensation for this. ;))
> 
> Thank you for reading. As always, comments/reviews are much appreciated and make me smile the way Naomi smiles at cheesecake.


	19. Maps Will Only Show Me How to Lose My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from the song “Nothing Without You” by Vienna Teng. I’ve had this chapter almost-all-the-way written for weeks now, hence the quick update.
> 
> Timeline reminder. Well, MY timeline, at least: In early season 1 Grey’s, Derek said that he’d been living in Seattle for six weeks, and Meredith’s internship started July first...that puts him in Seattle in late May (give or take). All this to say, we are pretty darn close to the *boom* now. 
> 
> There’s another trio flashback in this chapter, and more on the way! Those are always a lot of fun to write...and uh, other than that, this chapter is a BUMMER (I’m great at talking my writing up). A compelling-to-read bummer, I hope, but a bummer all the same. So...enjoy?

**Chapter 19. Maps Will Only Show Me How to Lose My Way**

The chocolate chip cookies from the café on the Vagelos campus smell exactly how Addison remembers. And they’re still enormous, too, practically human-head size – she would usually split one with Derek or Naomi, depending on who was with her at the time. _They bring back good memories, too,_ she muses while walking down West 168th. Mark’s practice is close to their former med school stomping grounds and NYP, so bringing a cookie for them to share seemed like a good idea. They were just talking about these cookies a few days ago.

“Hi,” Lynette greets when Addison approaches the reception counter. Mark’s receptionist might not like her, Addison knows, but she still always smiles and maintains some degree of politeness when Addison stops by around lunchtime (usually once a week). “Mark actually just stepped out to grab a bite to eat.”

“Oh.” Addison glances behind her to a bank of vacant waiting room chairs. “I can wait for a bit, if…if you don’t mind? I have the afternoon off.” She has an appointment with her OB/GYN at Weill Cornell this afternoon. It’s just a regular exam that Addison is definitely overdue for, and while she has considered telling Doctor O’Leary that she and Derek have discussed trying to get pregnant soon (well, _planned_ ), she’s not exactly _obligated_ to share this information.

“It might be better if…” Lynette clears her throat uneasily. “It’s actually a sit-down lunch, a long restaurant lunch, so I don’t know how…how long he’ll be out. His next appointment isn’t until two-thirty. Mark didn’t – he wouldn’t have gone out if he’d known you were coming.” Lynette says the last part so softly, so kindly, that it makes Addison want to cry. She feels bad that _Lynette_ feels bad, and of course she feels bad because without even saying it, she knows exactly what Mark’s receptionist is saying.

“It sounds like it’s not a sit-down-alone sort of lunch,” Addison volunteers with a weak smile.

Lynette hesitates. “I shouldn’t…it’s not really my place to say anything, but…I’m sorry, Addison.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” she replies quickly. “I’m the bad guy here.”

And it’s true, isn’t it? Addison catalogues all the truths she knows, all the names and labels that have descended upon her in the past seven months: an adulterous bitch. A liar. A cheater. A cold, manipulative wife who has decided to refill her birth control prescription when she runs out in early June, _just in case_. A selfish person who cannot – will not, as of yet – leave her husband, but also does not want the “other man” in her life to leave her.

Lynette shakes her head. “Well…you’re still a nice person and you have feelings. Should I tell Mark you came by, or…?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll connect with him later. Here though…” Addison slides the treat bag under the Plexiglas shield. “No, really, I insist,” she says when Lynette attempts to push it back. “I already had one. Take it, Lynette. I want you to have my cookie; go ahead.”

“Glad he’s not around to make a sleazy joke about that,” Lynette mumbles, pinching her fingers around the bag. She genuinely _does_ feel bad for Addison, but she is perfectly happy to accept the cookie once the redhead made it clear she wouldn’t be leaving with it.

And that would have been the end of it, it really would have, but when Mark arrives back at the practice around two, his naturally observant eyes see past the invoices, file folders, and Post-it tabs. He recognizes the small logo on the front of the bag. The subject of these particular cookies came up recently, and of course Addison would get him one if she was in the area. Of _course_ she would; that’s just the kind of person she is, he knows.

 _April showers bring May flowers_ , Mark thinks absently. Lynette’s grandson Rowan was at the office yesterday afternoon, and he happily told Mark this learned-in-preschool expression while coloring a picture. _April also brings May acceptance_ , Mark decides sardonically. It’s been four weeks since he told Addison he’d wait, and it’s becoming more and more clear she’s not going to leave her husband. And then a few days ago when Mark was talking with Derek, he found out that Addison and Derek… _no_. He tries to refocus on Lynette. _Don’t think about that right now_.

There’s a woman at his gym he flirts with sometimes: Daphne. Nothing about dating a woman – even one as hot as Daphne – sounds _appealing_ , but Mark’s therapist said it was in his best interest to at least _try_ to make steps towards moving on. And having lunch with someone would indicate a healthier moving-on approach than a quick fuck, he figures.

“She was here,” Mark states, and before Lynette can play dumb, he nods towards the half-crumpled treat bag. “I recognize the bag.” 

“I saved half for you.” Lynette’s lips pleat together. “I didn’t…it caught me by surprise. I didn’t tell her the truth, but I didn’t lie, either. She seemed like she figured it out though. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Mark. Are you okay?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Lynnie. And I’m okay,” Mark says, trying to force a smile onto his face, “just as long as that’s a cookie in there and not a macaron.”

Lynette grins at this remark. “We’ve been over this before: you _like_ macarons. It’s maca _roons_ you don’t like. But yes, this is a cookie.” She pushes the bag towards him, expression growing serious. “Hey…just because you went out to lunch with someone…you didn’t do anything wrong. You know that, right?”

 _Then why do I feel like shit?_ Mark wants to ask.

“Did she seem upset?” He asks instead, voice low.

“I’m not going to answer that, Mark.”

_So yes, then._

. .  
. .

Derek comes to a stop when they reach their row in the 504 section, and he glances back at Addison, a question playing at his lips. “Did you want to sit in the middle, or…?”

“No point in that.” Addison jerks her thumb over her shoulder to indicate Mark, who is standing behind her. She walks into the row first, taking the third seat over. “You’ll just keep leaning around me to talk to each other about the game. I’m fine on this side. I’ve got my beer – or will, I mean. I’m just going to be staring dreamily at Jeter the whole time anyway.”

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that,” Derek says, fighting back a laugh. His eyes are sparkling particularly bright today. _All_ of theirs are – Derek’s, Mark’s, and Addison’s. Spring term has ended, grades are in the books, and they have two months off before they start their second year of med school. “But on that note,” he adds, “I’ll go get the beers.”

Addison reaches for her purse (in her lap, because she certainly isn’t going to put it on the ground here). “Do you -”

“No, I’ll get this round,” Derek says. “Mark can get the next. And you can get the one after if it gets to that point.” Addison still goes for her wallet out of habit – _genuinely_ , not just doing a “pretend grab” thing – and Derek usually shakes her off. They occasionally split meals if she can wear him down enough, but she can at least comfort herself with the notion that they don’t ever go anywhere fancy or spend too much (overpriced beers at Yankee Stadium aside).

“Can I ask you something?” Addison says to Mark once Derek has headed back up the steps to go to the food area. Mark leans towards her – they have a seat between them – but even without this gesture, Addison wasn’t actually going to wait for an affirming response. Mark is usually pretty direct, both in asking questions and answering them. “You’re from money, right? I know the first rule of Old Money is you don’t talk about Old Money, but -”

“It’s okay.” Mark chuckles. “I won’t alert the other club members of your serious rule violation. But yeah, I am. Probably more like middle-aged money compared to _your_ family though.”

“What has Derek told you?”

“Not much,” he answers, which helps push away some of the anxiousness ghosting over Addison’s face. “He’s pretty private with relationship details, and I’m not the kind of person who pries about that stuff…he just said you’re really wealthy, and you referred to yourself as a WASP, once. He didn’t actually _have_ to tell me any of that though. You sort of look rich and you carry yourself that way – which isn’t an insult. You’re really nice and you’re not snobby or anything. I could just tell. Money recognizes money, I guess. Oh, and the last names, too. I bet your trust fund is killer. You have one, right?”

Addison nods weakly. “He doesn’t know about that yet.” She and Derek have been dating for almost eight months. It is her longest relationship to date (and arguably her happiest one, too). 

“Derek isn’t dating you because he’s envisioning potential dollar signs and Scrooge McDuck money. It won’t change anything.”

“No, I know.” Her eyes briefly flicker away from Mark, but then she looks back and gives him a smile. “I just brought it up because…well. My parents are going to be in the city next week, and when I mentioned this in passing to Derek, he…he wants to meet them. So we’re getting dinner with them, and it’s like…it’s like leading a lamb to the slaughter, it feels like? So I brought this up because I just…I was wondering if you’ve had similar experiences, I guess, when you’ve dated women who might not have been born with like eleven silver spoons.”

“I usually just try _not_ to introduce anyone to Jenny and Everett. It’s been awhile since I’ve dated someone seriously anyway…so I’m not much help there.”

“You know,” Addison says, “you never really talk much about your family. Your parents are the God-forbid-their-identity-be-defined-by-being-called-mother-and-father type, too?”

“Yep. We probably have more in common than you think. But Derek – he can hold his own. It won’t rattle him, Red, and it won’t change anything between you guys.” Mark leans a little closer. “Can I say something…sort of feelings-ish?”

“I didn’t know you were capable of that, Mark Sloan.”

“I have many talents,” he responds with a wink. “Look. My guess is you’re dreading the dinner almost more for _yourself_ than you are for Derek. Like, you’re worried about what Derek will think and observe. But, your parents…whatever criticisms they lob…no matter what they do or say or pick you apart over in the presence of your unsuspecting boyfriend…don’t let it get to you. Be proud of yourself and everything you’ve accomplished – some of which you’ve probably accomplished in _spite_ of your upbringing. You don’t have to fight for their approval. You’re at the top of your class at one of the best med schools in the country, and you’re, well.” Mark shrugs. “You’re pretty great, you know. I can see why Derek likes you so much. And hey, if the dinner sucks? It’s only one day. You’re more than whatever crap you had to deal with as a kid. Man…” he shakes his head, laughing quietly. “That was a _lot_ of feelings. As soon as Derek gets his ass back here, I’m chugging my beer so I can feel like a man again.”

“You know that you’re more than the things you had to deal with too, right?” Addison says, voice lilting and soft to Mark’s ears.

“Yeah. I do, but we’re not talking about me right now.”

“Thank you, Mark – for saying all that. It’s sort of been eating at me. You’re a really good friend. Not just to Derek, but to me as well. I know it’s cheesy, but I’m glad we’ve gotten to know each other better over the past few months. You don’t always know what you’re going to get into when you meet your boyfriend’s friends…even though I basically met you a half-second after I met him. But I’m just saying I’m glad the three of us get to do things together sometimes, even if it involves stupid baseball.”

“Glad you feel that way, because Derek and I are kind of a package deal. Can’t have one without the other.” Mark shifts back into his seat. “And there’s your man, by the way. No,” he adds when Addison cranes her head to watch for Derek coming down the steps. “The other Derek.” Mark tips his chin up to indicate the Yankee players who have come onto the field to warm up.

“Both Dereks _are_ pretty dreamy.”

“Stop before I barf.” 

. .  
. .

“Everything okay with Mark?” Derek asks curiously that evening while Addison is rinsing out the glass of wine she just finished. It takes her a moment to process the question, because she’s still a bit trapped in her head; today wasn’t particularly good. There was the incident with Lynette at lunch, of course, and then after that too, because while Addison’s appointment went fine, it’s not like any woman _enjoys_ having a speculum inside her body.

But then Addison’s heart beats faster when Derek brings her cell phone over to her – it was on the kitchen island, on silent mode – and she sees there is a text message from Mark on the screen.

_I’m sorry about earlier._

“Sorry,” Derek says while Addison panics about the fact that maybe she _looks_ like she is panicking. She inhales slowly, trying to settle her emotions, while Derek expands: “I wasn’t trying to snoop. I saw the screen light up and for a second I thought it was my phone.”

“It’s okay,” Addison reassures with a placid shake of her head. She’s certainly made that mistake before, too. It’s sort of instinctual to read what’s on the lock screen, right? “And, yeah, everything’s okay. It was a…Charlene-related thing,” she says. “Mark wanted me to talk to her, you know, to try and smooth things over after some sort of argument they had. I told him it was inappropriate though, and that I wouldn’t.”

“And when Mark didn’t like your answer he got grumpy?” Derek replies, and she smiles and nods. It’s definitely believable. “Do I need to kick his ass?” He jokes.

_Yes, but not because of the reason you’re asking._

“Nah, it’s okay,” Addison says, still smiling. Her cheeks hurt from the strain. “I’ll text him back later.”

She doesn’t text Mark back, but Derek is on-call the following night so she takes a chance and shows up at Mark’s apartment building unannounced. He’s there – he’s there _alone_ , more significantly – so he lets her in. Addison tells him about how Derek saw the text, and then she bristles when Mark sort of snorts over what her excuse to her husband was.

“Wowwww. You’re really going to mock my lie?” Addison snarls. “After your carelessness?” Her fingernails dig into her palms. Never mind that she shouldn’t have been so careless as to leave her phone unattended in the first place. “I didn’t want to say it was a consult or something surgical…there’s always a chance Derek skimmed the board, you know? That would have been too _specific_ of a lie anyway. And it’s not like our professions have much overlap. Not unless it’s something that’s serious and actually _matters_.”

And now it’s Mark’s turn to bristle. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He rolls his eyes. “Not everyone has a meaningful fucking job like you do, Addison.”

“Says the man who makes fun of my job constantly.”

“I do not,” Mark says defensively, but he knows that’s not true. _Gynie squad. Pink and squishy._ He’s certainly said things before, delved deep into mockery. But it’s not like Addison hasn’t mocked his profession right back…for its shallowness, its weakness, its irrelevance, even though it’s not always those things and that’s not even _why_ Mark went into plastics in the first place. He’s never told her about that, actually, and now…now is certainly not the time. “I won’t text again,” he continues brusquely. “Sorry. Except, you know…I _shouldn’t_ be sorry. That’s the thing: I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say that you did.”

“But you were upset,” he counters. “Lynette said so.”

Addison sinks her teeth into the inside of her cheek before answering. “Of course I was upset,” she tells him. “I know I don’t have any _right_ to be, but of course I get jealous, of course I get sad. Of course I wonder if whoever you’re with is prettier than me, or more fun to spend time with, or better in the sack, or is the person you’d actually rather be with, or -”

“It’s not _about_ any of that, Red. And even if any of those things were true, what would it matter?” Mark snaps. They are so close now, maybe just a foot apart, and the volume of both their voices has started to climb. “You’re not going to leave Derek anyway.”

“What would it be like, Mark…if I left him? I’m asking. I’m honestly asking about the long-term. What is it that you want?”

“I want _you_. How the fuck can you not know that?”

“You want me as what though? A warm body after we have sex? A girlfriend? A wife? What?”

“What is it that _you_ want, Addison?” He counters, jaw feeling tight. “Oh wait, I forgot – you don’t know. You have no idea what it is you want. And it just…I know that I’m not him. I’ll always be the ‘other guy’ to ‘the great guy.’ I’m the dog, the dirt bag dirty mistress, whatever the shit else that makes me the lesser in this equation. I’m the one your friends and colleagues and parents would probably say _Why?_ about if you told them we were seriously together. And yeah, it’s better than never getting on the podium at all, but still.” 

“Mark…” she says quietly. “That’s not…you’re not -”

“You told me once that Bizzy accused you of being a passive spectator…when you didn’t…when you didn’t feel it was the right call to operate on Susan. And -”

“It _wasn’t_.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Mark assures when he sees the stricken cross over Addison’s face. “That’s not what I’m getting at, and when we were sitting together in the hallway and I was holding your hand, I would have told you that then, too, if you had shared what was going on. I’m just trying to say that, yeah, clearly Bizzy was spiteful and hurting when she was making the accusation, but don’t you also think that maybe…maybe she was _projecting_? She might have had a great life with Susan for the time they had together, but it was still a behind-closed-doors life. There was never a chance it could be _more_ or that Bizzy could be _free_. She was never going to leave your dad for Susan – she’ll never leave him, period, even if it means she’ll never be in love with someone ever again. You can’t…” Mark exhales roughly and shakes his head. “You can’t have us both, Red. And right now all you’re doing is being a spectator in your own life. And, yeah, I’m an idiot who will probably take whatever scraps you throw my way for longer than I should, but I can’t make the choice for you – at some point, you have to _choose_. You shouldn’t _wait_ for a choice to be made for you or wait for your life to happen or something…but if you wait long enough, that’s what’s going to happen. Either I’ll wise up and leave or he’ll leave…or hell, maybe we both leave…but Derek will only leave if he finds out what’s been going on between us. He’s not going anywhere if you don’t give him a reason to; that’s just who he is. So we’re all stuck. We’re stuck because you won’t act.”

“I know. I know all that. And I know none of this is fair to you, Mark. It’s just…” Addison shrugs limply, feeling so stupid that it has all come down to this. “It’s just really hard.”

“It’s hard for me too. You think _I_ don’t get jealous or sad? You think I don’t know that you still sleep with him, that he can touch you whenever he wants, that you make plans with him, that you want to have a fucking _baby_ with him soon?”

Addison takes a step back. “He told you?” She asks, eyes widening.

“Not…not on purpose,” Mark says quickly, and _great_ , he thinks, that’s just one more thing to fucking feel bad and guilty about if she somehow blows up at Derek over this reveal. It truly was an accident, after all. “It just sort of slipped out when we were in the scrub room – we had surgeries around the same time. He immediately felt bad about it and made me promise I wouldn’t say anything. It’s not like…I mean, you guys would both be such great parents…I figured it would happen eventually, that you’d both want kids. Just.” Mark crosses his arms. “I just didn’t think trying to have a baby would be something you’re going to pursue this summer while we are…whatever we are. It’s sort of…I don’t know. Cruel. Yeah, cruel. That’s what it is. Cruel to both of us. ” He can see the glossy tears brimming in Addison’s eyes now, so he turns sideways, angling himself away from her. He can’t look at her; he’s enough of a sucker that he’ll hold her and comfort her if he sees that she’s crying. “And all of that just makes it really clear that you don’t in fact have any plans to walk away from your marriage.”

“Mark…” Addison says, voice breaking. “I’m sorry you’re -”

“You’re sorry I’m hurting or you’re _sorry_? Please just go, Addison. Go home to your husband. I really...I really don’t want to see you right now.”

. .  
. .

It has been six days since Addison found her mother unconscious and bleeding on the floor of the wine cellar. Blood slick and sticky, the ruins of broken glass glittering, the room itself cold and almost damp-feeling. The details stick with Addison – _they probably always will_ , she thinks as she unlocks the front door of the brownstone. She just wants to crawl into bed – it’s six PM, so Derek probably isn’t home from work yet. And for this, she is grateful.

“Oh,” Derek says in the form of a greeting while Addison is shrugging off a short trench coat, and she almost jumps in surprise. It is clearly an early day for him. “You’re back.” He comes towards her, and wraps her in a quick hug. “I thought you weren’t getting back until tomorrow.”

“I decided to come back early,” she says. “Bizzy is home now. She’s started taking an antidepressant, and a therapist came by to talk to her yesterday, because apparently house calls are still a _thing_ , and...and she’s mostly taking it easy…and it sort of became clear that she’d prefer Archer and I go back to our lives. Far away from her.” Addison steps back, nearly wrenching herself out of her husband’s embrace. “Derek…”

“What is it?”

“You left,” Addison says, feeling her throat tighten. She doubts she’ll cry though; it feels like she used up all her tears when she was in Connecticut. “You just…you _left_ me there. By myself. It didn’t matter that the Captain was there, that my brother was there, that whatever shell-version of my mother was there and still breathing…you know in some ways that still meant I was by myself. How could you just _leave_ me there?”

“Addie…you _told_ me to go. You sort of insisted, actually,” Derek replies, and Addison wonders if that is true. It is hard to remember exactly how that hospital hallway conversation played out once Derek looked at his work phone, but her husband isn’t the type of person to gaslight anyone, least of all her. And admittedly, the past few days have been a heavy fog. But even if Addison _did_ tell Derek to go back to New York, had forcefully insisted upon it…doesn’t he know her well enough to see past the frozen grin masking her pain?

“You can’t…you can’t expect me…” Derek continues, words clipped by an exasperated sigh. And then his expression softens. “Look. I’m really sorry, honey. I should have – I should have thought it through more. I’m here now though. I’m here, okay?”

“I just want to go lie down.”

“Sure.” Derek nods. “I’ll come with you.”

“No. Don’t bother.”

Addison climbs up the stairs without her husband. She is not sure what exactly she wants from Derek, but right now, for this specific moment, she just knows that she does not want _him_.

. .  
. .

“I need a little bit more clarification on what Governor Grant – hell, maybe _President_ Grant – even wants me to say,” Derek tells Addison with a happy shrug. He looks a little sheepish, but he’s talking animatedly while lacing up his running shoes. He received a call from the governor this morning, who will be announcing his intent to run for president. “I’m guessing just to talk a little to the press about his wife’s procedure, early detection…stuff like that. There will be other people talking before he comes on too.”

Addison smiles teasingly. “You keep saying ‘governor,’ but I feel like you get to call him by his first name now, right? His status aside…you _did_ save his wife’s life. I’m so happy for you though. And you said next Saturday?”

“Yeah, next Saturday – early morning. And then I was thinking we could go see Nancy, John, and their kiddos, if you wanted to? Hartford isn’t too far from where…” Derek trails off for a moment, and Addison stares at him questioningly. “So. The thing is, the press conference is going to be held outside of Greenwich Hospital.” He watches as Addison bites her lip and looks down at their bedroom floor. That was where Bizzy was transported following her suicide attempt. “Governor Grant’s mother was a nurse there for years, I guess, so that’s where he wants to announce his candidacy. Or _why_ there, I guess. Affordable healthcare is going to be a big part of his platform. And I want you to come, but…well.” Derek pauses and dips his head, trying to catch her gaze. “I’d understand if -”

“I don’t think…” Addison interrupts. She takes a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. “I…I want to hear your speech – and witness history, of course – and I’m so, so proud of you that you get to do something this big, but being at that hospital…I know it’s been a few years, but I don’t think…I don’t think I can do it.” She finally raises her head to look at Derek. “Would you be upset if your biggest fan wasn’t there?”

“No. No, of course not. I get why you wouldn’t want to go, and I sort of figured that would be the case. I understand – I just wanted to make sure I asked. You’ll at least help me pick out a good tie to wear for the thing, right?”

“Yeah, of course. And I suppose…” Addison begins, knowing she is going to push and push and push until everything explodes, but she is unwilling to change the course. She shouldn’t do this, especially not right now; Derek is leaving soon to go on a bike ride with Mark. He just bought a new bike, actually, since his “usual” one is still in the Hamptons…last ridden by Mark in October, right before Addison and Mark slept together for the first time. “I suppose you can keep this one in your back pocket for the next time I ask you to meet me somewhere or do something with me, and you’re not able to…or just choose not to.” 

Derek’s lips momentarily slide open in confusion, but it doesn’t take long for critical, irritatation-laced words to follow. “Are you trying to be funny, or are you actually starting something?” He says. “It’s not always my fault that I have to stay late at the practice, or that I end up being needed when I’m trying to get out of the hospital at a decent hour. You know how long the average surgery in my specialty lasts. And there are plenty of nights you work late now too, Addison.”

 _Mainly due to being with Mark_ , she thinks. So maybe she doesn’t get the high horse anymore.

“But at least…at least I try to talk to you,” she retorts, trying to shove Mark out of her thoughts. “That’s the difference. You’ve completely checked out of this marriage. And I won’t… I won’t do this forever, Derek.” It slips out. It really, really just slips out, and Addison thinks that maybe she was parroting Mark, but at the same time, well. Maybe not. _Did I…did I just threaten to leave him?_

“What is that supposed to mean?” Derek asks, but before she can attempt to cobble together an explanation, he keeps going, voice rising. They’ve both always been yellers. “You’re _choosing_ to pick a fight. You do this sometimes, you know. Stop acting like I’m the _only_ reason things between us aren’t like they used to be. And right now…right now things are good. I _thought_ they were, at least. And all…all marriages have rough patches, don’t they?”

“Well, maybe good isn’t...” she shakes head, considering this. “Things have been _better_. And this feels like…it feels like it’s been a really long rough patch.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice softening as he nods in agreement. “Yeah, it has.”

“And the good or better thing…I think maybe it’s because of there potentially being a baby? But it’s just that…” Addison begins, feeling hesitant. She knows what will happen when she shares her next thought. “If we want to have a baby together -”

“And there it is,” he interrupts. “Another inevitable timeline change – so much for the anniversary – because everything is always, always about you.”

“Since _when_? Everything is always about _you_ , Derek. About your career. You’re absent and indifferent. When’s the last time you actually just sat still and…and spent time with me? And holidays don’t count.”

“It’s kind of difficult to just sit still when you’re constantly nagging and whining and just generally finding ways to make me continually wonder what you even _want_ from me.”

“I want you to _care_. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I know you want a baby, but sometimes I feel like you only want one because it’s going to force a monumental change in our relationship, that maybe we’ll be more connected again or just have something to distract from the silence...I feel like you want it for one of those reasons, not because you want a baby specifically with _me_.”

“When you’re acting this insane I definitely _don’t_ want a baby with you. But I _do_ care. Of course I care. I love you, Addison.”

“But are you still _in_ love with me? And do you still, like, want to be with me?” These questions and their potential answers terrify Addison, but she has to ask. It’s progress, almost.

“Of course I’m still in love with you. And of course I want to be with you,” Derek says, and now she wants to ask, _Can you say it without looking at the floor?_ but she doesn’t. “And you’re acting…you always, always act like everything that’s gotten us to this point – this point where we’re both clearly unhappy, or at least _you’re_ unhappy – is solely my fault. And that’s not true. Addison, you…you were hardly ever here during your fellowship, and you completely shut down after what happened with your mom – you shut me out for _weeks_ , and it didn’t matter what I did or said. And the thing is, when I checked my phone and saw the work emergency… the day after Bizzy tried to kill herself…you told me to go. And I didn’t push back, and I _should_ have, but it felt like…it felt like you didn’t want me there.”

Addison inhales sharply at this confession. “I didn’t…oh. I didn’t know you felt that way, Derek. I’m really sorry for what I said at the time and…how...how that all played out. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it that way or from your perspective.”

“It’s okay, Addie. I was never mad at you about it…or it’s at least not the kind of thing where I held on to the anger. I know you were hurting, and I know that because of the home you grew up in, grief is sort of hard for you to navigate.”

“We should have…we should have navigated it together though. I should have let you…” Addison shakes her head and almost manages a smile. “I’m dangerously close to dropping some sort of sailing metaphor here, I think.”

“I can see that,” Derek says, and he does actually produce a thin smile. “You know, it’s kind of funny…well, funny-not-funny…but for all the shrieking you’ve done that my mother doesn’t like you, that you don’t really ‘fit in’ with the Shepherds…it’s not like I’ve ever fit in with your family, either. I never really thought that mattered though, as long as we had each other. But now I just…” Derek’s smile fades and he sighs. His eyes flicker to the clock on his dresser. “Mark is going to be here any minute. Listen…I’m sorry you don’t feel like I’m paying you enough attention. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve apparently done or haven’t done as your husband. Addison…I don’t…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I’m sorry that you’re upset,” he finishes.

 _I’m sorry that you’re_ … Addison hates those words. It’s not an actual apology or anything that indicates a sense of accountability: Derek might as well be saying, “I’m sorry that you have so many feelings and that I have to be subjected to them.” But, still. Problematic language aside, Addison sees how sad her husband is, how confused he is, and it makes her sad, too – sadder. And more confused, too. This is the most honest, raw conversation they’ve had in years. 

She sees Derek’s point about the Medical Genetics fellowship, even though he was arguably just as busy during that time period since he was getting his practice up and running. And as far as what happened after Bizzy... _it was days, not weeks, when it came to how I acted and how I could barely function when I got back from Susan’s funeral and from being with my family,_ Addison thinks.She is _certain_ of that, that she is not remembering that time from three years ago wrong. And even if it _had_ been weeks, she did eventually float to the surface and check back into her marriage…so why hasn’t Derek?

“How did we get to this point?” Addison asks quietly. She knows _how_ , yes. They’ve gotten successful. They’ve gotten lazy. They’ve gotten busy. They’ve gotten complacent. They’ve grown apart. But Addison is asking how in a _bigger_ sense, a more abstract one, perhaps, because when you get married, when you have a fairytale wedding with the man who is supposed to be your great love, the love of your life, you don’t ever think this is where you’ll end up. Whenever you end up with your spouse…you’re supposed to end up together. 

“I don’t know. But we’re here now,” Derek answers despondently. He mumbles something about waiting in the living room for Mark, and before Addison can saying anything else, he is leaving their bedroom and walking down the stairs. 

_Do you want to fix it together?_ Addison wants to ask. She knows the answer though. Derek will say _yes_ …but that doesn’t mean he’ll _truly_ want to, or that anything will reasonably change.

Addison is glad she didn’t ask the question aloud though. It’s better not to right now, she knows, because she’s not even sure what _she_ would want to have be the end result of Derek’s potential answer. Does she want to fix it with him? She’s not so sure anymore. She is sorry though. _That_ she does know for sure. 

It isn’t until later that Addison remembers she pulled the _I’m sorry that you’re…_ line on Mark.

. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **References/Nods to Various Episodes:**
> 
> Grey’s 3x11.  
> Addison: “Mark...I’m sorry you’re hurting.”  
> Mark: “You’re sorry I’m hurting or you’re sorry?”
> 
> Also in Grey’s 3x11, Mark did refer to Addison’s line of work as “squishy and pink,” and called it “the gynie squad.” Sigh. He was one of many, many characters who respected Addison’s brilliance (that much was always clear), but crapped profession when the chance to be snarky arose (I have this very long-winded apology that Mark offers to Addison in MTGOF because this always made me sad for her). That said, Mark did also take some criticism for his specialty, and I’m sure Addison had some ThoughtsTM about plastics. 
> 
> Private Practice 3x11 (wow, just realizing right this second that 3x11 in both shows were pretty big for Addison/Mark).
> 
> So, Mark described himself as a “dog” in this chapter during the Mark/Addison fight. This was in reference to PP 3x11 when Sam talked to Addison about “dogs” while she was operating on Mark’s daughter, Sloan...which was peak Asshole Sam Energy. He described Mark as a “dachshund,” and said: “They’re more concerned with their own needs than they are with making you happy. They’re filthy and immoral...”
> 
> Please note that the way in which Addison sarcastically responded, “Immoral? They’re immoral dogs?” kind of killed me dead though. Oh, and then the owners of dachshunds were described by Sam as “desperate for affection” (which, let’s be honest: Addison always was this way, but still). 
> 
> And then Addison later puts Sam in his place and tells him (in a quote us Maddison fans collectively feel our hearts twinge over), “I care about Mark Sloan. I loved him once. And he was our best friend. And, yes, he’s done a lot of stupid things, but he also let all of us do a lot of stupid things. He let us do a lot of stupid things and he never judged us. He’s not a dog, Sam. Sure, he’s got a screwed up moral compass, but so do I. He’s a good man.”
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	20. Storms Will Push and Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you in advance for reading – I’ve had chapters 19 and 20 mostly written for a while now, hence the speedy updates. I’m moving in a few days, so this will probably be the last update for a bit while I deal with all that craziness/busyness (next chapter will be a bit more Mark-centric). It could be worse on my end though…just imagine trying to move all of Addison and Derek’s crap out of the brownstone and the Hamptons home. ;) 
> 
> Chapter title is a line from the song “North,” by Sleeping At Last.

**Chapter 20. Storms Will Push and Pull**

“I’ve been yelled at by both the men I love in the past twenty-four hours,” Addison says by way of a greeting when Savvy answers her cell phone. She leaves out the part about both instances being entirely her fault, or at least mostly her own doing. 

Addison went out onto the stoop when Mark got to the brownstone. It would have been weird if she didn’t, she felt. And Mark said hello and managed to smile because Derek was standing right there, but after that, he deliberately avoided looking at her. Addison could feel – as contradictory as it sounds in her head – the heat of his coldness. Derek didn’t see the tension between them because he was busy carrying his bike down the steps, but Addison could certainly see that Mark was still angry. The rigid jaw, the thinly-arranged lips, the narrowed eyes…the soundless fury came across so powerfully.

“That sounds fun for you,” Savvy responds with mild derision, but Addison can still hear the concern and sympathy coating her friend’s voice. “Wanna come over and talk about it? Weiss is in the shower right now. Phoebe spit up all down his back, and it was one-thousand percent the grossest thing I’ve ever seen…but also…possibly the funniest? Anyway, I can temporarily kick him out if you want to talk in private.” Savvy confessed to Addison recently that she has told Weiss that their friends are having some problems, just in case Addison needs to come over more (right now, for example), but she left out the parts that don’t exactly paint Addison in a good, fidelity-abiding light. “I could send Weiss to run errands or something.”

“I don’t really feel right about banishing your husband, Sav.”

“Oh, he won’t mind. You heard what I just said, right? His kid barfed down his _back_. Like, Exorcism-style. Weiss would love a break, and if he doesn’t to be my errand boy, he can just go to his office – he can get in there on weekends – and he can take a nap. He’d love that…there hasn’t been much sleeping in the past forty-eight hours. So seriously, come over. I’m worried about you and you probably shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“But I don’t…” Addison hesitates. “I really want to see you, but I don’t want to disturb your newborn glow with all of my drama…my self- _induced_ drama. This should be such a happy time for you. I don’t want to put a damper on that.”

“It _is_ a happy time, spit-up aside, but if you don’t want to talk about what’s been going on, you can at least come over to tell me if my nipples are supposed to look like this. Otherwise I’m about to send some half-naked pics your way. And if I do, guess what: you’re getting a nice little preview of this year’s holiday cards, too.”

Addison bursts into laughter, and it’s a welcome release; her stomach has been in absolute knots since last night. “I can definitely check, but I promise your nipples are probably supposed to look the way they do right now,” she says. “Breastfeeding is no joke. But Savvy, if I…if I come over, I might start crying and if I do, I might…I might not be able to stop.”

“That’s okay. You and my kid have that in common…but she’s cool as a cucumber right now, and holding a baby will probably be good therapy, too. Phoebe loves her Aunt Addie. She wants to snuggle with you and I promise she won’t judge you if you cry all over her.”

. .   
. .

“Are you…” Mark gives Derek a furtive look, and then opts to just power through and finish the rest of his thought. He knows Derek is thinking the same thing, but Derek likely won’t say it to his fiancée for fear of hurting her feelings. _No_ , Mark figures. _Derek will wait until we’ve capsized_. _He’ll say something to Addison when we’re about to drown, probably._ “Look, I’m not trying to be rude here, Red, but you know what you’re doing, right?” He says this to Addison’s back since she is currently busy raising one of the sails on her father’s boat.

Mark and Derek have observed and overheard Addison mumble various things about the state of the wind and water on the Long Island Sound today – the tide will be pushing them away from the dock, apparently…something about “the bottom left.” And just before Mark asked his question, there was some under-the-breath muttering about a tiller and a hull, and _pushing the bow out_ , none of which means _anything_ to Mark and Derek. And even though Mark isn’t _trying_ to be rude, it is still a pushy enough question that it does in fact make Addison turn around. Her expression is a little amused, but it is mostly just stubbornly defensive, which is what Mark expected. The predictability of it makes him grin. Derek, too.

“Of course I know what I’m doing,” Addison says insistently. “Stop being so sexist.”

“I’m not being sexist. Come on, you know I’m a feminist.”

Addison smirks at this comment. “ _Screwing_ feminists does not a feminist make, Mark.”

“Listen, I’d be concerned if Derek was in charge of sailing a boat, too. No offense.”

“None taken…and likewise,” Derek replies. He removes his sunglasses to study his fiancée a little closer. “Addison, it’s just that...you’ve said before that you’re a ‘terrible sailor.’ On more than one occasion, actually. And our lives are kind of in your hands with this.”

“Terrible by the _Captain’_ _s_ standards. And you know he and Bizzy are difficult to please. Don’t worry; I’ve got this. Also, your lives are _hardly_ in my hands. Relax. We’re not going directly into a monsoon. It’s a nice day out. Just ignore the shark over there.” And then Addison leans forward, clutching at her stomach and laughing loudly when both guys’ heads jerk with alarm to where she pointed. “Oh, come on. That was too easy. Did you honestly think there was going to be a shark in the Sound?”

“I could be standing in the middle of Madison Square Garden and if you told me there was a shark a few feet away from me, I’d _still_ freak out.” Mark shakes his head, trying to appear annoyed, but he and Derek are both laughing. “And I can’t wait to make a joke about a rat next time I’m in your guys’ apartment,” he says as an afterthought.

“Well, it’s New York City,” Derek says, “so that’s always a possibility. And Addie will definitely run off screaming when it happens.”

It turns out Addison does know what she is doing on the boat though, and that soon becomes clear to Mark. Yes, he and Derek help with things here and there when she gives them specific instructions (they are the first and second officers, and Addison told them they could fight privately over who gets to be her first officer), but it’s really Addison doing all the work and ensuring they cut smoothly through the cold, brackish water surrounding them. It’s just another thing that makes Addison _impressive_ in Mark’s eyes. And he’s not the easiest man to impress.

Later in the day when they have successfully anchored far away from the shoreline, Addison wriggles out from under the arm Derek has slung over her shoulders in order to follow Mark’s intrigued gaze to a neighboring sailboat where a few bikini-clad women are. _College-aged_ , Addison suspects.

“You know…” she begins, which captures the attention of both men. “It would really, really make me laugh – and probably Derek, too – but Mark, if you want to swim over to that boat and do your Mark Thing, I promise we won’t raise the anchor and take off without you.”

“My Mark Thing,” Mark replies with amusement. “I’m just looking, actually. They’re with a couple guys…you can’t see them, but they’re in the water on the other side of the boat. They probably don’t want some creep – though a handsome creep, mind you – swimming up on them.”

“Well, if there’s _guys_ over there then.” Addison makes a dramatic show of holding up her left hand and wiggling her bare fingers. “Maybe we should go check it out. No ring right now.” She purposely left it at her parents’ house this morning. Derek proposed a few months ago, and they will be getting married next June; the save-the-date cards just went out.

Addison doesn’t _really_ think the diamond ring is going to slide off her finger – Naomi said it’s supposed to fit like a glove – but she’d rather not take the chance, especially over a body of water. She has given some thought to what she’ll do when she starts her residency, and thinks that maybe she’ll use a safety pin and fasten it to her scrub top when she gets to observe and assist with procedures.

“You think you’re soooo _cute_ whenever you say that, Addie.” Derek chuckles. He puts his arm back over her. “Get some new material. The crowd is over it.”

“Well, you don’t want me to _lose_ the ring, right?”

“Indeed I do not. So no girls then…or guys…” Derek peers at Mark, who is seated on the opposite side of the boat. “I guess you’re stuck with us.” And Mark just shrugs and takes a long sip of his beer; there are worse people to be stuck with.

Mark isn’t really in the mood to swim just yet – he’d like to be as hot as possible before jumping in, because it just makes it feel that much better – so he remains in the boat while Addison and Derek hold hands and leap off the back. His friends seem pretty occupied with one another, so Mark is given a bit more freedom to stare. To stare at Addison, specifically. She’s gorgeous, and when she’s happy, she always looks a bit more intoxicating. He sees the gathering of freckles dusted along her narrow shoulders, the extra coloring now present in her cheekbones (definitely the start of a sunburn), and her darkened-from-the-water hair gathered on top of her head. He also sees the flimsy-looking purple straps and the knot at the base of her neck that he assumes is part of a triangle bikini top. Mark can’t say for certain; he stared in the opposite direction when Addison quietly took her tank top and shorts off earlier before getting in the water. Mark knows what’s considered rude and inappropriate, as well as what would be disrespectful to his best friend. It’s definitely fun to discreetly _look_ at Addison though from time to time. Besides, it’s just _looking_ , and Mark doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Attractive women are going to get looked at, they just are, and Mark and Derek have always joked that they have the same taste in women. Additionally, Mark looks at _many_ women, and it is of no consequence; looking doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything. 

Derek and Addison usually appear nauseatingly happy and although it can be annoying to observe sometimes, Mark truly is happy for them. He can tell how in love they are. _She’s the love of my life_ , Derek told him once when they’d both had a few too many drinks. 

It happened so quickly once Addison and Derek shook hands over their cadaver, and so quickly once Mark innocently asked Addison if she had any interest in going out on a date with Derek. Now it is Addison and Derek all the time (or Derek and Addison, depending on who you ask). But often there’s an _and Mark_ in there too, Mark knows, because Derek has always been a loyal friend, and Addison is the same way. He is grateful for that, and sometimes humbled by the fact that the two of them even _want_ to be friends with him, and that they want him to be Derek’s best man next summer; Addison and Derek are just so good and kind and _genuine_ with their intentions. And Mark knows he isn’t really like that.

The love stuff is tricky. Mark thinks that maybe if you’re with the right person – Derek and Addison, for example – it wouldn’t be scary to fall in love or utterly exhausting and boring to commit to and stick with one person for the rest of your life. It would probably be worth it. Hell, even Mark’s parents, for all of their flaws, truly love each other.

It’s mostly the Addison-is-brilliant thing for Mark – yeah, the tits, ass, and hair are great to covertly stare at once in a while, sure, but there’s just something about the _brilliance_. Mark gives this some thought while inky-colored waves gently push up against their boat. This characteristic occasionally serves as some type of girlfriend or relationship yardstick for him. He thinks it might be nice if he found someone who is his intellectual equal. (He ignores the fact that the Addison comparison in this situation might not be entirely accurate, because they probably _aren’t_ equals. She’s just a little bit smarter than Mark, and a little smarter than Derek, too. Neither man doubts she will be the star intern when they start their residency program in two weeks’ time.)

Mark has been with a lot of women, but he doesn’t feel like he’s met his match yet. And he’s not exactly _looking_ for match…he just sort of figures he’ll keep doing what he’s doing, and if the right woman comes along…well. He’ll probably know it when the time comes and then he’ll find spectacular ways to fuck it up anyway.

“It really is beautiful out here,” he says when Derek and Addison climb back into the boat and wrap themselves in beach towels. He says it too softly for his friends to hear him though.

Derek is ultimately the one to break the peaceful silence between the three of them. He grabs a beer from the cooler and clears his throat while opening it. “We should probably toast to something. I feel like we should toast to something. So here’s to…the almost-beginning of our residency. And shark-less waters and Addison not killing us out here.”

Addison lifts up her water bottle filled with wine – she’s pretty much exclusively a wine and Scotch drinker now. “Ha, very funny. And here’s to the amazing start to the rest of our lives. Oh shut up, the both of you,” she adds when Derek and Mark look at one another and smirk. “I know it’s cheesy, but I don’t care. We really are lucky that our rank-orders all worked out and we get to be together. So here’s to us…the three of us.”

“An incomparable trio,” Mark says. He moves his beer into the circle to push it against Addison’s and Derek’s drinks. For a brief moment, they are all connected.

. .  
. .

“She’s so beautiful. Just breathtaking, really,” Addison whispers. She is cradling a now-sleeping Phoebe in her arms. She strokes her thumb over a thin, feather-soft patch of dark hair close to the baby’s temple. “I just can’t get over it.”

Savvy beams and nods. “I’m biased, but yeah…yeah, she is. If your arms get tired though, feel free to put her in the bassinet. And you don’t have to whisper, Addie. I mean, don’t yell or use an air horn, but you can talk at regular volume. It doesn’t faze her while she’s asleep, and even if it did, she’s gotta get used to it sometime.”

“I only just saw her a week ago, and you send me pictures all the time, but seeing her in person after a week...they change so much at this age, and so fast.”

“Yeah, they really do. So…” Savvy pulls her knees up and tucks her feet underneath her on the couch cushion, and then angles her body sideways so she is facing Addison. “We can deal with the nipple situation later. Let’s talk.”

“I just don’t…I don’t even know where to _start_.”

“That’s okay. Start anywhere. I’m listening.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just say, since we’re on the subject of babies…I told Derek…on the day Phoebe was born, actually…I told him that I want to have a baby with him.” Addison’s cheeks quickly flush upon sharing this. It’s more complicated than that, of course – _so_ much more complicated. And Savvy picks up on it right away.

“So that means you’re going to end things with Mark. Right…?” Savvy sighs in resignation when Addison’s eyes dart away from her, which makes it clear that I-don’t-have-an-answer is the answer. “Yeah…” Savvy murmurs. “I thought so. We’ve talked about this before, but it’s one thing to cheat on your husband, Addie...it’s another to cheat on your husband when he also happens to be the father of your child. It’s…” Savvy purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s unbelievably selfish. There are many things about your affair that I always try not to judge you for, but this…this isn’t one of them. You’re being an asshole for even _thinking_ about having a baby while you’re not sure you want to end things with Mark…and when…when you’re also not even sure if you want to stay with your husband. Addison, I love you, and I’m not trying to be -”

“No, I know. I’m being an asshole. Trust me; I know.” Addison’s eyes fill with tears. “And I’m absolutely ashamed of myself for it.”

“Do you want a baby with Derek though or do you just want a _baby_? Don’t say anything, just think about it, because honestly, I’m gonna go ahead and say you aren’t sure. And I don’t blame you if your biological clock is ticking. I also think it’s pretty normal for feelings like this to come up when one of your closest friends has a baby, like…just thinking about what’s happening in your life right now and what’s not. The thing is though…you’re gonna be such a great mom, Addie. No matter who you have a kid with and no matter _how_ you have a kid. Remember that. Don’t stay in your marriage just because you want to have a baby, and to have that baby _with_ someone. Derek would be a great dad, yeah, but that still doesn’t necessarily make having a baby with him right now _right_. There’s more than one way or whatever to become a mom, and if you have a child on your own…it’s not like you wouldn’t have me and Naomi and probably other friends as a support system. You _know_ it’s wrong to start trying though when this is what your life is currently like. You’re in love with two men and can’t choose between them and you might just end up staying in a marriage you’re incredibly unhappy in just because it’s the safe choice, probably the easier choice…that’s not fair to a kid, you know?”

“No, it’s not,” Addison says in agreement. “And Derek, you’re right...he’s the safe choice. Staying _would_ be easier. I’d be unhappy, yes, but my life would be in one piece. I wouldn’t have to hurt him...and I really, really don’t want to hurt him, Sav. Also, if I don’t end things, then I won’t have to shock my family and his family and our friends and colleagues and just be judged mercilessly for leaving him…for leaving him for his best friend. And I know I shouldn’t _care_ what other people think, but how do you _not_ care in this situation? I’d be a pariah. People would hate me. And if I stayed with my husband, I’d be sad, but not…not scared. I’d still be whole.”

Savvy shakes her head. “Addie, you’re _not_ whole though. You’re not right now. Not really…not when you’re this anxious and upset and guilt-ridden all the time. And you deserve to be happy, you know. No matter what you’ve done...you deserve to be happy, and to be loved. No one should stay in a relationship that makes them sad, and sometimes that might mean taking a risk, although in this case...I don’t know. Are you scared of losing Mark? And are you more scared of losing Mark than you are of losing Derek?”

“Yes to losing Mark, but as far as the comparison piece...I don’t know.” Addison wipes with one hand at the tears starting to slip down her cheeks. “Losing Mark wouldn’t come with a cartoon anvil being dropped. Losing Derek _would_.”

“Losing Derek would be infinitely messier, yeah, but I feel like you’re still going to experience the anvil feeling with Mark since you love him, too. But Addison, the baby thing...I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about that, especially now that I’m a parent. I know you, so I know how your mind works. So I’m just gonna say...it’s really awful to tell Derek you want to try, and then…find ways to _not_ try. You get me? I’m sure it’s occurred to you by now to just pretend to get off birth control and then just pop the daily pills in secret…and that’s soap opera level of drama and heartlessness. Please don’t do that to him. But that said, you’ve sort of locked yourself into a timeline now – that’s the problem.”

“There are a lot of problems.”

“Right, but your anniversary is…what?” Savvy does the math in her head. “Four weeks away? Addison, you have to make a _decision_ before then because Derek is expecting some baby-making sex.”

“Well…maybe not. We left things in a pretty bad place this morning.”

“Still. Look, if you decide to take a chance with Mark, that you want to be with him – it’s gonna suck to have to have this conversation with Derek, but what you’re going through is just going to get worse if you _don’t_ do anything. And Derek, he...he’s resilient. He would recover. And maybe in the long run, it would be better for him, too. Maybe he’ll be happy again. Less dreary. I love the guy, but he _is_ sort of dreary now. He won’t leave you if you don’t say anything, but he’s clearly not happy either. And maybe if you let Derek go...I don’t know. But the fact that he doesn’t love you the way he used to love you...that’s not your fault, Addie. People change. You’ve changed, too, and maybe you and Derek just weren’t meant to be each other’s ‘one’ forever. And Derek...maybe there’s something else out there for him, or something more. I don’t really know.”

“Or there will be some _one_ else,” Addison sniffles.

“Hey, if you decide to leave him...you’re not allowed to be jealous about that. And, you won’t be friends with Derek again after this, you’re right – but realistically, are you even friends with him _now_? It’s kinda hard to be friends with someone who isn’t around. We’ve talked about this before...enough times that if I had a nickel for each time, this loft would be paid off. But I’m going to say it again anyway, even in the absence of spare change: Derek is a great guy, but maybe he’s not the right guy. _The_ guy. Or maybe he was just right for a certain period of time, because I know with absolute certainty – without even knowing Mark that well – that Mark wasn’t ready for anything serious in his twenties and for most of his thirties. And Derek was. And like I’ve said before: maybe it wasn’t meant to be a whole life with Derek. Maybe things have just…run their course, as sad as that is.”

“I love Derek. No matter what happens…I’ll always love him. I’ll always consider him family, even though I know...I know it won’t really be possible to be a family if I tell him the truth. But…even though I love Derek and I’ll always love him, he’s not...he’s not _Mark_. When I’m with Mark…I forget everything else, and I’m more ‘me’ with him than I’ve ever known myself to be before. He sees me, Savvy. All of me, even the ugly and messy parts. And it’s not just because we come from similar backgrounds and had similar upbringings and the sex – well, you probably don’t want to hear about that, but it’s really, really good, like multiple orgasms-good. It’s not just those things though; there’s just some sort of _connection_ between us. I can’t really explain it. The way Mark is with other people, other women – because I’ve seen plenty of his crap over the years – he’s not like that with me, not ever. And Derek…he’s such a good person and was a really good husband for a such a long time, but he’s not…he’s not…”

“He’s not Mark,” Savvy finishes.

“Exactly. And, you know, you asked me once who I would choose if there were no repercussions…and I…I have an answer now. I would pick Mark.”

“You think or know you would?”

Addison hangs her head sadly at this. And more tears follow. Messy ones. All over her cheeks, her jawbone, the groove above her upper lip. There is a huge distinction between _think_ and _know_ , obviously. And it would have been easier if this morning had not happened. It felt like she had something of a breakthrough with Derek, even though they didn’t resolve anything and they were certainly resentful of each other when Derek left to ride around Central Park with Mark; it wasn’t just sadness over the state of their marriage that they were feeling. They talked though – _really_ talked, if only for a moment. But Addison wonders if that actually means something, or if it’s just an exception to the otherwise lonely marriage she has gotten so used to existing in.

“I’m not trying to push you in either direction, Addie, but remember that things with Mark are _new_. You know what that stage of infatuation feels like, the rose-colored honeymoon thing, and how it eventually goes from, like, ridiculously lusty and lovey-dovey to more…subdued, I guess. Still lusty and lovey-dovey, hopefully, but those feelings of _newness_ dissipate. Everything sort of levels out...so are you sure you’re not just thinking that you want to be with Mark because of your hypothalamus and all those sex hormones?”

“Hey…” Addison grins faintly through her tears. “ _I’m_ the doctor here.”

“Yes, you are. And you know what you’re doing as a medical professional – you always have. You’re the best surgeon there is…but this isn’t surgical. I’ll support you no matter what, but you very clearly have _no_ idea what you’re doing. I mean. Unless I’m wrong. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong. I have not known what I’m doing for a single second since all of this started with Mark in the fall. I just…I just know that I love him and I want to be with him, even though there’s no way to know what the long-term looks like, and if he’ll even…if he’ll even want the same things I do or if we can truly make it work. And if – if we _can’t_ make it work, then I’ll have thrown my marriage away, my life away on a fling. I know that, but I still…I still love him. You know, Bizzy accused me of being a passive spectator once – and so did Mark – and it turns out they’re both right. And I don’t _want_ to be a passive spectator. I want to act. I want _Mark_. I feel like I have something with him that Derek and I don’t have and have never had. And I’ll always love Derek, but this is just…it’s different. It’s _more_ , somehow. It’s more and it’s…it’s kind of everything to me.”

Savvy still looks doubtful, and Addison doesn’t blame her. 

“Are you going to tell Derek though? You can feel all those things for Mark,” Savvy states, “and that’s all well and good, but telling Derek is a different story. So...are you going to?”

“I just…I don’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t _deserve_ to be hurt. And relationships, even successful ones, involve a fair amount of forgiveness, but not...not for this situation. Realistically though, I know I’m _already_ hurting him; he just doesn’t know it. So I know I need to tell him, even though it will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And at least…at least I’m _thinking_ about telling Derek, about ending my marriage. For a long time, I couldn’t think about it. So this is progress. Like a _centimeter_ of progress, but it’s...it’s something, right?”

Savvy shrugs, more or less in agreement. “It is something,” she muses. “But, Addison…I have a bad feeling. I’ve had it lately, and I don’t know why, but I can’t shake it. I’m not trying to make you paranoid, but...I just have a bad feeling, okay? It doesn’t matter if you’re careful; mistakes can still happen and wrong-place-wrong-time things can still happen. Not everything is within your control. I just know that you can’t keep going the way you’re going. I’ll support you no matter what you decide to do, and if what you need to do is leave your husband, I’ll be here for you, but all this secrecy and sneaking around…it’s just that, probability-wise…” Savvy reaches out to delicately squeeze her friend’s wrist. “Addison, I’m really, really worried Derek is going to find out about you and Mark before you get the chance to tell him the truth.” 

. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **References/Nods to Various Episodes**
> 
> Grey’s 2x04:  
> Addison: “You know, you are going forgive me eventually, right? I mean you can’t just...I mean, there was a time when you thought of me as your best friend.”  
> Derek: “There was a time where I thought you were the love of my life. Things change.” And then Addison, later: “Derek, have you ever thought that even if I am Satan and an adulterous bitch, that I still might be the love of your life?”
> 
> There is some bike riding referenced in this chapter, and I’m really just mentioning it now because God bless the following exchange from Grey’s 3x05:  
> Mark: “Who got the brownstone?”  
> Addison: “None of your business.”  
> Mark: “I left my bike in the basement. I just want to know who to talk to to get it back.”  
> Addison: “Buy a new bike.”  
> Mark: “You know, this angry divorcée thing really turns me on.”  
> Also in 3x05, Addison to Derek: “Mark wasn’t a one night stand. I was in love with him. Or at least I thought I was. After you left, we lived together for two months. I wanted to believe that we could make it work. I wanted to believe I hadn’t thrown my marriage away, that I hadn’t thrown my life away on a fling…”
> 
> Grey’s 2x08:  
> Savvy: “Addie, you’re the best surgeon there is.”  
> Addison: “True. But this isn’t surgical.”
> 
> Also the Savvy/Addison, um, boobie discussion in this chapter was a nod to when Addison is photographing Savvy topless to “immortalize” her breasts before surgery. And during that scene, Savvy says, “You know these are gonna be next year’s holiday cards.” (Based on when this episode aired/the Grey’s timeline, Christmas should have been a few weeks away at the time of Savvy’s surgery, but…kay.)


	21. Into the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the song “Into the Fire,” by Thirteen Senses. A classic Grey’s song! And just one flashback this chapter – trio scenes are my favorite.

**Chapter 21. Into the Fire**

“I haven’t seen a certain leggy redhead this week…” Lynette states, trying to keep her tone neutral and unassuming while she shuffles insurance papers between her fingers.

Mark doesn’t really blame his receptionist for exposing her curiosity. The leggy redhead in question usually makes an appearance at his practice once or twice a week, and Thursday is now coming to a close. It has been six days since his argument with Addison. He hasn’t shared that detail with Lynette though; if he had, she probably wouldn’t have brought Addison up.

“Am I a bad person?” Mark asks rather than directly addressing Lynette’s lingering query. He adjusts his phone in his back pocket while waiting for a response – another detail that has gone unshared.

“You’re a _complicated_ person.” Lynette passes him a copy of tomorrow’s schedule, along with an apologetic look for the unintended coffee ring in the top right corner. “A complicated person who sometimes does bad or ill-advised _things_ , but no, Mark – you’re not a bad person. What did your therapist say when you asked her this?”

“The classic therapy thing where she asked me if _I_ think I’m a bad person.” Mark grins weakly. That’s _probably_ what Olivia would say, at least; it’s been about eight weeks since he last saw her. “Olivia also once told me that beneath this rugged and confident exterior, I’m self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree.”

“Sweetheart, how much money are these sessions costing you? I could have told you that free of charge. But, Mark…” Lynette’s shoulders rise and fall with a gentle sigh. “You know, when all of this started with Addison, I probably should have put my hands over my ears and started going ‘la-la-la-la-la’ so you couldn’t talk about it with me. Not that I don’t want to support you, but I can only tell you what I _think_ , and that doesn’t mean that’s what you should actually _do_.”

“You’re the closest thing to a mom I have,” Mark counters. Jenny is gone, and while she might have been a _mother_ , she certainly wasn’t a _mom_ – the difference is clear to Mark. And as far as other maternal figures, he doesn’t see Carolyn Shepherd much anymore, and even if he did, it’s not like this is a topic that could be on the table. “Your opinion and advice are important to me.”

“Even so. You’re going to have to figure this out on your own. It’s wrong to cheat, but it’s not wrong to _feel_ , and…you get how significant this is for you, right? I’m proud of you for that. Whatever happens, if it ends or it doesn’t end with Addison…I’m proud of you for letting yourself be vulnerable enough to love someone like this.”

Mark pulls his eyes away from Lynette, feeling embarrassed, but he does manage a small, quick nod. Yes, he recognizes the significance. He always tries so hard _not_ to feel anything, especially anything that would leave him completely and utterly exposed. To feel is to get your hopes up, to get hurt, to be disappointed.

And Mark especially never thought that he would feel _this_ feeling: love.

“There just…there isn’t really a roadmap for a situation like this, especially when you both have strong feelings for each other,” Lynette continues, voice low. “And I sort of feel bad for telling you not to fight for her, if…if you really love her. I just don’t know what ‘fighting’ is supposed to look like in this situation.”

“Neither do I. And that’s one of the complicating factors. Well, one of like a hundred, I mean.”

Mark doesn’t tell Lynette that a few minutes ago he received a text message from Addison; he is just too tired to talk about it right now or have a discussion about what he should _do_. He has memorized the words Addison typed though: _Hi. If you are free, can I come over tomorrow night? I’d like to talk to you, and to apologize. Mostly just apologize._

He says yes and tells her to come around eight o’clock. And in true Addison form, she arrives right on time. She looks different this evening. It’s not the casual clothes, because she’s worn some version of this in the Hamptons before – loose-fitting white shirt, jeans, flip flops. And it’s not the lack of makeup, because Mark has seen her without makeup before, too, and honestly, she looks amazing either way. He stupidly glances down at her left hand, but of course the God damn engagement ring and wedding band are still there. He knows the ring intimately, truth be told. He was at the jewelry store (ring shopping was deemed by Derek as Mark’s “first official duty as best man”) when his best friend confidently pointed out a radiant-cut diamond in the display case and said, _That one. That’s the one._

But something is different about Addison tonight…Mark just isn’t sure what. She looks sad and regretful – maybe that’s all it is. Pain uncovers a person.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and steps aside so she can enter. “Come in.” He gestures towards the couch, but Addison only gets as far as the coffee table before she turns around to face him.

“I’m sorry for both,” Addison says, words coming out in a rush of air before Mark can attempt to do the _polite thing_ and ask if she wants something to drink. “Last week when you asked me if I was…I’m sorry for hurting you, and I’m sorry. I’m just…sorry. I know that none of this is fair to you. And when you mentioned the great guy versus the ‘other guy’ thing…that’s not true, Mark.” Her eyes search over his. “It’s just not true, and I felt really bad I didn’t try harder to cut you off when you said that. You’re a good man, Mark. You’re rough around the edges, and maybe on _paper_ Derek presents as the better, more appropriate guy, but that’s not at all how I see you. And about not waiting forever…” Addison presses her lips together, inhaling noisily through her nose. “I get that. I’ve already asked so much of you, I know that, but please just give me more time. I…I love you so much.” 

“But you love him, too.” 

Addison looks down at the floor. “I do,” she admits feebly. “I could call him right now and tell him I’m leaving him for you, but that still wouldn’t change how I _feel_. I’ve been married to Derek for almost eleven years, and with him even longer than that. No matter what my marriage is currently like, I still love him and that isn’t going to go away anytime soon. But I love you _more_ , Mark. I just…I just do. It transcends logic and I can’t explain it, but everything is just somehow _more_ with you. I _feel_ more.” Her voice cracks, and when she glances back up to look at Mark, he can see the tears beginning to vibrate in her blue-green eyes. “So please just give me more time. I’m going to find a way to tell him, and I’ll – I’ll try not to do anything to make things more serious with Derek in the meantime or lead him on, like…like the baby thing. I won’t try to get pregnant. But I just…I just need more time. So, please. I love you. Please don’t give up on me.”

Addison crosses her arms over her stomach, and shifts her gaze back to the floor again. Mark observes the way she sort of folds in on herself, in something that looks like a self-hug. She seems so fragile in this moment. And that’s really all it takes for him to close the remaining feet between them and pull her into his arms. 

“Hey. Hey, I’m not giving up on you,” Mark murmurs when she starts to cry into his chest, each sob anxious and pitchy. “I’m not. I’m not, okay?” And he knows it’s true. He might not wait _forever_ , but he’d certainly wait a long, long time. He keeps one arm coiled around Addison’s waist, and moves the other soothingly along her upper back while she hiccups and dampens his neck and shirt. He rests his face close to hers, waiting for her to settle down. After a few minutes, he starts to hear her release tiny, breathless apologies in between cries. He tries to pull back, but her fingers are twisted firmly around the fabric of his shirt. She seems unwilling to let go just yet. 

“Red?” He states. “Just one ‘I’m sorry’ was sufficient.”

Addison chokes out something between a laugh and a weep upon hearing this. “Is it though?” She sniffles. “Because it feels like…it feels like _all_ I should be doing is apologizing.”

“Well, I’m sorry too, for the record.”

“For what?”

“Making you cry, for one thing.” Mark presses his lips to her wet cheek. “And I’m sorry for…for my role in this.”

It’s not all Addison’s guilt. It can’t be. Derek has been Mark’s best friend for over thirty years now. They grew up together. And no matter what Derek might be like as a husband, he is still a good, kind, and honorable person. He is still a good friend. He always has been. Mark thinks about how in moments of silence when they were teenagers, Derek would always quietly ask him how Jenny was doing, or how his parents were doing. Derek always invited Mark on fishing trips, even though this was such a special thing between Derek and his dad – with four noisy, girly sisters, this father-son time was something of a sanctuary, and yet it never occurred to Derek to _not_ ask Mark if he wanted to come, too. Derek made sure Mark was included in everything, and that he was given or at least offered whatever it was that Derek had – a homemade costume for Halloween, a brownie in his lunch bag, a ride to a hockey game, a trip planned to tour a specific college. He sat with Mark the first time he lost a patient. He brought him food after his mom passed away. He told Mark one day he would return the favor – if or when Mark was ready to settle down – and go ring shopping with him. And God, Derek’s family, especially Carolyn…she has always been so good to Mark. 

“I’m also sorry for the pain and stress it’s caused you,” Mark continues. “And I just…I know what I’m asking of you, Addison. Or want I _want_ , at least, because wanting you means that I want you to leave him and…and burn your life to the ground for me. And that’s…a lot. And it’s a selfish thing to want and to ask of someone, really.”

“I’m sorry this is how it happened,” Addison murmurs back. “I’m sorry that it’s an affair, that we’re screwing around behind Derek’s back, that this is just morally _wrong_ , but I…I don’t regret it. I don’t regret _you_ , I mean. I don’t think I ever could.”

“Me neither. What time do you have to be back tonight?”

“I don’t. He has that speech in Greenwich tomorrow, remember? He drove up this afternoon…and he’s staying until Sunday. He’s going to go see Nancy and her family after the thing with the governor. He’ll probably serve as entertainment for the kids since Nancy is in her third trimester and doesn’t want them climbing all over her. Anyway…more details than you needed to know. He’s not around though.”

“There’s something in the water with those Shepherd women,” Mark jokes. “Addie…stay with me tonight. Stay with me this weekend.” He normally asks, tries to be nonchalant about it and put the ball in her court, but this time he doesn’t, and he smiles when he feels her nod beneath his chin. “Come on. Let’s go lie down for a bit and relax.”

Normally if they cuddle (which is sort of dependent upon how physically active they are, as neither tends to enjoy lying super close if they have worked up a decent sex-induced sweat), Addison will rest her head on his chest or they’ll just loosely spoon, but Mark gets the sense she isn’t quite ready to relax her hold on him yet. Instead, he draws her close once he’s positioned on his side, tucking her head beneath his chin, and then slipping an arm under the curve of her neck and looping the other over her waist, hugging her against him.

“Doing a little better?” He eventually asks. It’s been a few minutes now, and she’s starting to feel less tense, and is breathing gently into the hollow of his throat. And when Addison nods and mutters a small _better_ that tickles his skin, Mark adds, “Good. You know, I keep meaning to ask you: your birthday is at the end of this month…right?”

“Yeah.” Addison moves away from the warm wall of his chest so that she can look at him. “It’s the twenty-eighth,” she says while situating herself on the pillow they are sharing.

Mark’s fingernails brush gently at her skin as he pushes a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “I don’t…I don’t really know what to get you,” he admits.

Addison smiles when she registers how adorably _shy_ he looks in this moment. “That’s really thoughtful of you, Mark, but you don’t have to give me anything.” She leans forward to capture his lips with hers.

“Feels like you want me to give you something right now though,” Mark says between kisses, and he can feel the movement between them as Addison starts to wriggle out of her jeans. She still seems so fragile to him though. “Addison…maybe -”

“It’s okay,” she says, continuing to undress. “I want to.” And then she reaches for him.

When Mark is moving on top of her and inside her, he studies her carefully. His movements are slow at the moment; he’s focusing most of his energy on watching her. Addison’s eyes are closed, and she’s a bit passive tonight, both quiet and docile. Her limbs are wrapped tightly around Mark, hugging him close, but on any other day she would be raising her hips and meeting him thrust for thrust. On any other day, when this is how they were angled, her hands would be exploring his back muscles and the dips in his waist and tangling in his hair.

Mark stills above her. “You good?” He asks softly.

“I’m good. So…” Addison inhales roughly when he grinds his hips against hers. “ _Oh_. So, _so_ good.” She finally opens her eyes and flashes him a hesitant grin. “Sorry. I know I’m…being lazy. You’re probably not getting much out of this with me lying here doing the dead fish thing.”

“You’re fine,” he says. “And trust me: I’m getting plenty out of this, Red.”

It is true. All the subtle changes are striking to observe, and Mark can certainly see them and enjoy them more when they are moving slowly. He likes watching the flush rise up her chest the more his hands stroke over her, the way her head drops back and she arches beneath him when he pays attention to her breasts, the languid half-smile she reveals when he runs his fingers along her neck, the way her mouth rounds with each sound of passion he draws from her, and the relaxing and quivering of her leg muscles when he kisses certain spots. There is something in it for him, too.

Mark brings one of his hands up to cup the top of her head. “What are you thinking about?” He asks quietly, fingertips brushing at her scalp.

Addison’s eyes fill with tears at this question, but the moisture doesn’t spill over. “You,” she whispers. “Just you.”

Mark leans forward to kiss her ear in her response. “I love you,” he murmurs, and his teeth lightly scrape against Addison’s skin in a smile when she says it back. He pushes up from his elbows, fingers splayed and palms digging into the mattress as he increases his speed.

“You were thinking about me too, right?” She teases afterwards, lying contently in his arms. She just turned Mark’s projector light on and selected the blue and white colors. The murkiness of the combined shades makes her think of an incoming storm.

Mark is completely serious when he tells her, “You’re all I ever think about.”

None of it is a joke because all of it is serious. Addison knows that, too. She thinks back to minutes earlier when their bodies were still joined together. Mark was pushing insistently, moving in long, deep strokes above her, but his angle was different, so he took her hand and guided it between them. This surprised Addison. She’s no stranger to self-help during sex – and she is certain all men with an interest in having sex with women could really benefit from some sort of introductory course to female pleasure – but she’s never had to do this with Mark. He always takes care of her. Addison touched herself though, fingers tracing slow circles, and Mark grinned when her mouth rounded in a gasp from the added pressure, followed by a husky, satisfied moan. It wasn’t just from the pleasure though. And it wasn’t just from the explosive, every-nerve-on-fire sensation when they climaxed together. It was a gasp of surprise from Addison because she recognized that the movement of her fingers is different now – subtle in its difference, yes, but still different. She realized she now touches herself how _he_ always touches her.

It’s serious. They both know though that it’s easy, at a time like this, for love and passion and tenderness to intertwine. Things are always easier – and _better_ – when there is not an hours-away-deadline looming. And right now, Derek won’t be back until Sunday.

. .  
. .

“Good God, stop locking your knees, woman. Keep them _bent_. Good. Better. So did…did you end up finishing your list? All the prospective recipients accounted for?” Mark is doing his best to distract Addison from staring at her wobbly feet. His grip is bruisingly tight under her elbows, and he feels bad about that, but it is the only option since Derek is still lacing up his skates. Carolyn called – inevitably, to finalize Christmas plans – which caused Derek to fall behind while Addison and Mark put their skates on and pushed out onto the rink. Addison was the one who insisted they end their shopping day this way, and neither man had the heart to say no to her when they passed the outdoor rink at Bryant Park. Her excitement throughout December is somewhat infectious, even for someone like Mark, who did not want to come for _any_ of this. Derek talked him into it though, and Mark _did_ still need to buy something for Jenny and Everett, so it sort of made sense to kill a Sunday with his best friends. The problem is that Addison failed to mention she isn’t good on the ice (she has claimed, “I used to be good at this!” several times now, but Mark is skeptical).

“ _Almost_ everyone,” Addison replies, experimentally sinking a little lower. “We’re missing one person, as well as a birthday gift for that same person who has the big three-three coming up next month…I don’t like to buy gifts for people when they’re standing right next to me though.” Addison tips her head up towards Mark, squinting in the bright winter sun. “Said person’s name is typically synonymous with ‘Ebenezer’ this time of year.” 

“Aren’t you a funny one. Oh, thank God.” Mark breathes a sigh of relief when his best friend enters the rink from the other side. “There comes Derek…and ah, look.” Mark rolls his eyes as Derek makes his way over to them with ease. “Showboating as usual.”

Mark and Derek both played in an ice hockey rec league as little kids, but they always preferred the freedom and lightheartedness associated with pond hockey. But whether it was a serious game or they were just messing around with friends, Mark played with his entire heart. He had natural skills in that he shifted from foot to foot with perfect balance, had an effective wrist shot, and wasn’t afraid to pursue the puck aggressively, but mostly he just _wanted_ to win more than anyone else. Derek was skilled too though. He was on the scrawny side growing up, but he was good with clappers and deceivingly quick, so he could typically avoid more brute-like forms of physical contact. And it helped that Mark, who typically went out of his way to slam into opponents, was always on Derek’s team, and could shield him from any incoming body checks.

Precision versus passion. One’s strength was always the other’s weakness, but Mark and Derek found ways to fill in the differences. They have always been a team that way.

Addison scoffs at Mark’s critique. “As if you wouldn’t be doing the _exact_ same thing if you weren’t helping me.”

“Let’s find out. Would you like me to let go so that you fall and bust your pretty face open?”

“ _No_ ,” Addison says, voice climbing up an octave. She angles herself away from Mark though and grins when Derek comes to a stop a few feet away from them, pushing his blade down and sending up a scrape of misty ice.

“Hey…” Derek sets his hands on his thighs and laughs wildly at the scene in front of him. “Mark, why are your hands all over my wife?” It’s an innocent, playful question though because it’s very clear to Derek _why_ Mark is hanging on tightly to his wife’s elbows.

Addison laughs back, while Mark grins weakly. “Derek, if _you_ put your hands on me,” she says, “your best friend wouldn’t have to. Get over here and help. Mark is losing patience with me, and I’m getting closer and closer to breaking my neck.”

“Well, at least we know a guy who can help if that’s what happens,” Derek jokes. “Addie, why did you want to go skating if you can’t really do it?” He moves behind Addison and then reaches out for her waist to pull her back against him. Addison’s feet are still scraping somewhat uncoordinatedly, so Mark’s hands hover close by, but Derek’s grip appears steady enough for now. 

“Because I love this time of year and this is a this-time-of-year _thing_. Plus, I _can_ do it,” Addison says while her left leg accidentally slides forward. Mark reaches out to grab her elbows again. “Muscle memory, right?” She laughs. “It’s going to come back to me any minute now.”

“Addison – you have to stop _laughing_. That’s making it worse.” Mark sighs. “Derek, if you stay here, I’ll go get her a -”

“No!” Addison cuts in, still giggling. “No, please don’t. I used to be – well, okay, maybe not _good_ at this, but I wasn’t terrible.” She peers over Mark’s shoulder towards the rows of steel trainers bunched together outside the rink. “I don’t want one of the walker things. It’s a point of pride.”

“You see yourself right now _without_ the walker, correct?”

Derek reaches a hand around to purposely pull Addison’s beanie lower. She squeals and adjusts it back to where it was, and Mark nearly yells at the both of them, because sudden movements – _surprise_ movements – are not helping anyone. “It seems like your pride went out the window a long time ago when it comes to ice skating, honey,” Derek says.

But somehow, they make it work. Mark knows it helps with his overall mood that Addison promises they don’t have to stay long, or if the men _do_ decide they want to stay longer, she’ll wait on the sidelines. _This isn’t too bad_ , Mark realizes. He can almost see the appeal of this time of year. Addison is between them, and Mark and Derek both have an arm anchored through hers. Additionally, Christmas music is piping through the loudspeakers, the giant spruce tree in the Winter Village is sparkling with thousands of colorful lights, and Addison’s laugh is sort of infectious... _it actually is a nice day_.

“Just one more lap for me. Also…” Addison starts to laugh again when she recognizes the opening notes to “Merry Christmas, Darling.” She looks at Derek, and then at Mark. “What a romantic song to get to listen to with my favorite skating partners.”

Mark almost warns her to stop moving her head from side-to-side, because it is definitely not helping her to stay balanced. _Almost_ , but at the last second he doesn’t because a lock of Addison’s hair flicks close to his nose at the same time he inhales. He can’t place the scent, but he likes it, and forgets whatever it was he was going to scold her for.

“Yes, how romantic…this is truly a special moment the three of us are having,” Derek says sarcastically.

“Not the ‘three of us,” Addison tells him. “It’s called a ‘throuple,’ actually.”

Mark smirks. “You’d only be so lucky, Addison.”

“No, _you’d_ only be so lucky,” she chirps back, giggling. She keeps her eyes trained forward this time, so she can’t see if Derek rolls his eyes and if Mark’s mouth is moving to say something snarky back, but she assumes _yes_ is the answer to both. Twisting her head will only lead to more clumsiness, and her husband and his best friend have certainly been working overtime to keep her steady. Plus, Addison could tell Mark was close to saying something the last time she turned to him, and she really does appreciate his patience with her. “But seriously…thanks, Mark. I know this isn’t your favorite season, but I’m glad Derek was able to talk you into coming with us today, and I’m glad you were around to help keep me steady while Derek was busy.”

“For you, Red? Anytime. Throuple or no throuple.”

. .  
. .

“Those can’t be comfy to walk a mile and-a-half in,” Mark comments, inclining his heads towards Addison’s footwear. She’s still wearing the pair of flip flops she showed up in last night.

It’s Saturday afternoon now and they have just made it past the Shakespeare Garden. It’s a nice enough day, definitely nice enough for them to cut through Central Park to go back to the brownstone, but when Mark looks above him, he can see strains of sunlight are starting to fade behind thin, rolling clouds. They have time, but it’s supposed to rain this evening.

They slept in late, had more sex (Addison was a bit more active all three times), and got a bite to eat at a nearby deli. Now they’re headed to the brownstone so Addison can grab a few things, including a change of clothes. She always uses a spare toothbrush at Mark’s apartment that he keeps available for her, but otherwise, none of her stuff is here. _It’s like she’s never here at all_ , Mark muses, but then this morning she was on top of him, then he was behind her, then they were in the shower, and of course she’s here and he’s here and it’s real, it’s so real.

“I’m fine,” Addison tells him, waving a hand in dismissal at his shoe comment. “You’ve seen the heels I wear daily, right? Trust me, my feet can handle this.”

“I’ll circle back to this later then when you have a staph infection. Congratulations on exposing yourself to every disgusting element Manhattan has to offer on its streets.”

“I don’t have any open cuts on my feet, and if I _did_ , at least I know a handsome doctor who can treat me if I did end up with bacteria in my bloodstream. Besides…” Addison grins suggestively. “I’ll rinse off when I get back to the brownstone…and you can join me, if you like.”

“I would definitely like to.” Mark smiles, but he watches as the look of delight on her face shifts into a subtle frown. “What?”

“Oh. Nothing. It’s sappy, and so high school-ish, but I was just thinking how much I wish we could hold hands right now…”

“It’s a big city, Red,” he says, but he doesn’t push any more than that.

She shakes her head. “I know, but we…we shouldn’t. Not in public. Just in case.”

Mark does what he does best, then: he makes a joke about how after they take that shower together and get Addison’s stuff, they can go back to his apartment and hold hands and hold other bodily parts as much as she wants to. But internally he thinks that yes, while it is kind of sappy and high school-ish, he’d desperately like to hold her hand in public, too.

. .  
. .

It starts to rain shortly after they get out of the shower, so they decide to wait the storm out and give it a little longer before they call a cab, which Mark realizes may be futile…it only seems to be getting worse out there. It’s warm inside though, so he drinks his glass of wine while Addison is upstairs packing. He stares out the window, watching as the rain hammers against the glass, thick droplets making the outside world fuzzy. He thinks absently of the exterior structure of the brownstone – he remembers reading something about brownstones once. He lost interest in the article when he got to the “curing process,” but he remembers everything before that. A sandstone veneer over brick is prone to cracking and crumbling, prone to decay and erosion. The façade has to be built back up again when constant weather infiltration becomes too much.

 _It’s such an iconic home though, especially here_ , Mark thinks. He gives Addison a small smile when she comes down the stairs and back into the living room. _But it’s like they weren’t meant to stand forever._

“You should have asked me out first,” Addison murmurs with a wry smile while she refills Mark’s glass. “Maybe if you had, all this could have been avoided.”

“I wanted to actually,” Mark says, and the wine bottle she is holding clinks against his glass mid-pour. He reaches his hand out to palm the tulip-shaped bowl of the glassware; Addison was understandably not expecting this to be his answer. “But it was clear from the beginning that Derek wanted to ask you out. As soon as we were out of our first Gross Anatomy class, Derek asked what I thought about you, and I said you were hot. Derek said he thought so, too – we’ve always had the same taste in women. I don’t think we really said anything about you and your hotness after that though – not until a few weeks later when Derek told me he was going to ask you out to dinner – but I knew he was interested from the beginning, that he wasn’t just making an inconsequential observation about the girl on the other side of the cadaver. And yeah, there was a decent window of time between when we agreed you were hot and when he actually made a move…so sure, I could have still asked if you wanted to go out with me…but it felt like he’d already laid claim to you, like…like you were ‘his’ even then.”

“I didn’t know that,” Addison says slowly. She takes a seat beside him on the couch and pours a glass of wine for herself. “That it had…had crossed your mind.”

“It did – briefly. And it’s not like there haven’t been a few times throughout the years where I’ve _thought_ about you…” Mark lingers there for a moment, and she glances away, blushing. “But it’s not like…I wasn’t ready for anything serious during med school. You know that; I’m sure I would have found a way to hurt you, even if it wasn’t intentional. You would have ended up being another notch on the med school dissection table.” Mark rubs his thumb and pointer finger along the stem of his wine glass, thinking. “You know, for Derek and me – high school doesn’t really count because although we were best friends, we ran in different social circles when it came to girls…I was with cheerleaders and Derek was pretty much too nervous at the time to even talk to girls, but when he _did_ , they were likely to be ones who were holding flutes or on the debate team. And then we went to different colleges, so coming to med school together…it was honestly the first time we were observing women we both liked, and the women happened to be…attainable.”

Addison raises an inquiring eyebrow, accompanied by a smirk. “Was I that easy?”

“No. Well, I don’t know what happened on your first date with Derek…and I don’t want to know.” He throws her a wink. “I just meant that all of a sudden there were women right in front of us, since having the same taste didn’t really mean anything before that time – the high school and college thing, like I mentioned – and because everything else for our agreed-upon-taste was based off magazines and shows. It’s not like we had an expectation that a super model or someone like Kelly Kapowski was going to magically appear and tell us she would go out with one of us – but _just_ one of us, so we’d have to fight for her. That’s what I mean by attainable.”

Addison gives him a sad, rueful look. “I’m the only one who has come between you, then.”

“You’re the only one who has ever _mattered_ enough to come between us. I don’t…” Mark swallows heavily. “I don’t want to lose you, Red. I want to fight for you. Slay dragons and all that crap. But fighting for you…well.” He raises his shoulders in a small, weakened shrug. “I know it’s not an after-school thing or a pond hockey scuffle. It’s anything but simple, and I know…I know in this case, it’s really not up to me.”

“Right.” Addison’s voice is carved with sorrow. “Chivalry notwithstanding, I think this is one of those situations where the princess has to find a way out of the tower herself.”

“Yeah,” Mark replies. “Yeah, it is, and I…I understand if you can’t leave Derek, or if…if you don’t want to. Or if it’s just not _possible_ for you to leave him. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to tell him,” she says insistently. “I just need more time to figure out what to say. I’m going to be honest with him, but the words are all just tangled in my head…I’m going to figure it out though.” 

“I guess…” Mark begins haltingly. He knows how easy it is for Addison to say things like this when Derek isn’t around. He takes a deep breath and reaches out to grab her hands. He remembers some variation of Lynette’s words: _you have let yourself be vulnerable enough to love like this_. “I guess what it comes down to for me is that I’d rather have had _this_ with you than nothing, and if I love you enough to be with you…I should also be able to love you enough to accept that loving you doesn’t necessarily mean I get to be with you. Does that…does that make sense?”

“Yes, but I want you to be with me. And I want to be with you, Mark. Let’s go upstairs.”

Mark’s eyes flicker towards the darkened staircase. “You sure?” Derek is gone for the weekend, yes, but it still always feels a bit unnerving to be intimate here.

“The storm doesn’t seem like it’s going to let up anytime soon. Might as well stay here for a bit. And he won’t be back until tomorrow anyway. I want to be with you and I want to be with you right _now_.” Addison tugs on his hands, and they get to their feet.

They make their way up the stairs slowly, pausing every other step to run their hands over each other and exchange long, lust-filled kisses. Mark’s leather jacket slips off his shoulders somewhere near the top.

He loves her enough to let her go.

And as Addison gently nudges Mark back onto the blue and green flannel sheets, she knows that she loves him enough that she does not _want_ him to ever let her go. 

The storm rages outside, lightning and thunder rolling across the night sky while Addison slides up and down Mark’s thighs. His back muscles rise off the mattress in time with her movements, and she slows for a moment while he kisses her insistently, messily. And then she rocks faster again, feeling support from his hands on her waist, and though their mouths are still close, they aren’t quite kissing. She’s close now, and doesn’t want to disrupt their rhythm, and from the way Mark is grunting beneath her, she knows the same applies to him. A clap of thunder grumbles above them, and Addison absently thinks that there is something to be said for almost-kissing, in its love and intimacy. She can feel every breath of Mark’s against his lips, and he can certainly feel her breathy pants and gasps in return.

The pressure is building. Everything feels deliciously on fire.

And then the bedroom door swings open, and it all burns down to ashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes
> 
> Mark’s jacket reference, Grey’s 2x01. Derek talking to Meredith: “One night I parked my car, I unlock my front door, go inside my house, and something’s different…I go upstairs…I step on a man’s jacket that doesn’t belong to me. And everything I think I know just shifts. Because the jacket that doesn’t belong to me is a jacket that I recognize. And what I know now is that when I go into my bedroom, I’m not just gonna see that my wife is cheating on me. I’m gonna see that my wife is cheating on me with Mark, who happened to be my best friend.”
> 
> Flannel sheets reference. Grey’s 2x03, Derek to Addison: “You slept with my best friend in my favorite sheets.” Addison is somewhat insistent (and GIRL pick your battles/why are you doing this…you’re trying to get your husband back, are you not???) that no, incorrect, the Italian sheets with the paisleys are Derek’s favorite.
> 
> Grey’s, 2x18. Mark talking to Meredith while she cleans up his Derek knuckle-shaped wound: “Derek and I always did have the same taste in women.” And then, “My four-hundred dollar an hour shrink says that because behind this rugged and confident exterior, I’m self-destructive and self-loathing to an almost pathological degree.” Also, there was the “Derek walks in on me naked with his wife…actually in the throes. And he just turns around and walks away, but he sees me so much as talking to you and I’m on the ground bleeding. Interesting, don’t you think?” EXCEPT then 3x01 happened, and apparently…apparently not (or revisionist history/retcon/whatevs). What we do also know from 3x01 is that it was raining pretty hard that night.
> 
> In PP 3x11, Addison talking to Sam about Mark: “I care about Mark Sloan. I loved him once…sure, he’s got a screwed-up moral compass, but so do I. He’s a good man.”


	22. An Ocean of Tears Will Spill for What Is Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from the song “Eight,” by Sleeping At Last.

**Chapter 22. An Ocean of Tears Will Spill for What Is Broken  
**  
 _A logical person would have put pants_ _on first_ , Addison thinks. _But nothing is logical anymore_. Instead, she comforts herself with the notion that it is dark outside, and even if there _was_ a neighbor peeping out from behind a curtain right now…what does it matter? She barely knows her neighbors, a symptom of the long hours she works, and just par for the course when it comes to busy, fast-moving Manhattanites.

Addison scoops up the water-soaked garments scattered on the sidewalk, wool and cashmere and silk heavy under the weight of unrelenting rain. One trip back into the house with ruined couture cradled in her arms is not possible, but two – _two is doable_ , Addison decides. Three would be best, but she is convinced she can (clumsily) make it in two. She likens it to grocery bags, post-shopping excursion: it would be easier to make additional trips to the car when there are multiple bags, but rarely is this the choice embraced by anyone, even if it means oddly-shaped bruises and reddened, handle-creased forearms from stubbornly trying to balance the extra bulk.

It ends up being two trips, but when Addison tosses the second pile – including the comforter – inside the entryway of the brownstone, something shiny just off the edge of the curb catches her eye. It is near where Derek flung her clothes, so she wonders if something slipped out of a pocket of one of the garments. Loose change, perhaps? A thin bangle she got tired of wearing halfway through a workday? It doesn’t really matter – again, nothing does – but she decides to investigate anyway, just to ensure there are no tangible bits of tonight’s events left come morning light. _Morning. When Derek will be back_ , she thinks.

Addison’s stomach lurches when she reaches the bottom of the concrete steps and gets a closer look at the object. _Derek’s ring_. There’s a brutal finality to what was clearly her husband’s decision to remove the band and drop it in the street. _The gutter. He threw it in the freaking gutter_. Addison pinches the polished metal between her fingers and stands back up. She told Derek if he left, they wouldn’t be able to find a way through this – _if you go now, we’re not going to get through this. If you go now, we don’t have a chance._ But as Addison slowly, almost experimentally closes and opens her fingers around the wedding band, pressing it into the center of her palm, she realizes that Derek already knew that.

_He doesn’t want to get through this_. _He doesn’t want to try to survive this._ And that’s a perfectly fair outlook, Addison feels, even in the midst of all this thunderous pain and shock and grief. Why would anyone who saw what Derek saw tonight – his wife and his best friend – want to work through a betrayal like this?

_These are the seeds you chose to sow._

Addison steps back onto the sidewalk, and gasps when something jagged pierces her skin, landing somewhere in the rough patch underneath her ring and pinky toes.

“Oh,” she whimpers, gingerly lifting her foot. Mark’s words from this afternoon slip back into her head: _disgusting Manhattan streets_.

She hobbles up the steps, careful to put the bulk of her weight on her heel whenever her left foot touches the ground. She keeps her foot turned out, absently thinking that Bizzy and Mrs. Sobel would both be pleased at how the fundamentals of ballet and tap still come naturally to her. She knows it’s glass in her foot, but she can’t bring herself to look yet. It hurts, but it’s not excruciatingly painful.

_Or maybe it just doesn’t hurt as much as everything else does._

When Addison reaches the top of the steps, she catches sight of her reflection in the rain-smeared glass of the double doors. The fragile, weeping woman blinking back at her is a startling sight; Addison almost doesn’t recognize herself. She struggles with the doorknob, her shaking hands fumbling against the wetness of the brassware. For a moment, she panics. She is seven, and Patch Gold has locked her in the wine cellar. And then she is twenty-seven years beyond seven, watching as her mother’s blood spreads like lava over the cellar floor.

Addison twists at the knob again though, firmer this time, and the door gives way. She makes it. She finds her way through. _Did I really make it through though?_ she wonders, anxiety still thick in her veins.

Her foot is pulsing now.

. .  
. .

Nine-year-old Mark inhales sleepily and mumbles a disoriented protest when he feels someone shaking his shoulder. It’s summer. He doesn’t really need to be up early.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” Jenny’s voice sieves through the foggy remnants of slumber Mark is still wrapped in. “Do you want to do something fun with me this morning? I thought maybe…I thought maybe we could go to Skaneateles Lake. Just the two of us.”

“Skana-ta-what?”

“Skaneateles Lake. It’s one of the Finger Lakes…it’s not too far from here,” Jenny tells him. “I know it’s early, so I was thinking we could just walk around and then stick our feet in, if you want. And then maybe…maybe get a bite to eat afterwards? There’s a diner close by the lake that I know has really good pancakes. I just thought that – that we could do something nice together. I know yesterday was really scary for you, honey.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Mark says defensively. This is a lie though. He was scared – _so_ scared – when he found Jenny unresponsive in her bed.

“Of course not…” Jenny replies after a noticeable pause. “But you shouldn’t have had to see me like that. I’m supposed to take care of you, not the other way around.”

Mark thinks this is sort of an odd thing for his mother to say. Maybe it _should_ be that way, but it’s not. If he’s not being _immature_ about this – a word Kathleen Shepherd says all the time now, because apparently all her siblings are _immature_ compared to her – he knows that’s not entirely true. Jenny _does_ take care of him. She makes him food, drives him places, reminds him to shower, buys him things, knows the names of his football and baseball and hockey coaches, takes him to the doctor when he needs to go, tells him not to sit on the counter when she catches him doing it, signs his permission slips, and makes sure he has clothes to wear. Mark is just a kid, after all.

But there are also a lot of ways in which he takes care of himself. He always has.

. .  
. .

Addison positions herself sideways on the couch, straightening her legs out and pressing her lower back into one of the inside arms. She uses her right foot – the good one – to nudge down a back pillow so she can prop up her other foot. She keeps her eyes closed while working the pillow down, just in case her foot turns inward in the process and she is forced to see whatever is visible of the glass still embedded in her skin; she doesn’t want to look. She thinks it will make her queasy, make her sick, and of course she recognizes the irony of being a doctor in this moment. Addison’s own blood rising up from her body and exiting it has never left her terrified before (even as a child, it always vaguely fascinated her), but she thinks this might be the time it does induce nausea.

She’s not bleeding much, at least. She can see a few droplets that indicate her path from the front door to the couch, but it’s nothing substantial.

She does the only thing that makes sense to her and reaches for her phone, currently face-down on the coffee table. The thing that makes the most sense is momentarily put on pause though when Addison sees a text message on her lock screen from Derek. _I’ll be home in about an hour. Stopped for gas._

The tension in her chest shifts as hopefulness starts to find its way back to her. Maybe –

And then her heart sinks as she keeps reading. _Nancy’s kiddos all came down with colds. Decided to come back tonight. See you soon._

Addison stares at the words and makes the estimate in her head, and then doubles back to look at the timestamp. She and Mark were probably still downstairs when Derek texted her with his change of plans. _All you had to do was keep an eye on your phone_ , she thinks, but her phone was on silent and she definitely _wasn’t_ looking at it, because she rarely does when she’s with Mark. She only wants to focus on _them_ when they’re together, as though she can put away the other parts of her life and return to them later when it suits her. And tonight is confirmation that what she and Mark were doing – sneaking around – just wasn’t sustainable, even if they were being as careful as possible. Addison shakily scrolls through her contacts now.

And obviously they _weren’t_ being as careful as possible. Maybe they never were. This was inevitable, wasn’t it? How could the ending be anything _but_ this?

“Hi.” Mark answers on the last ring before the call goes to voicemail. He sounds hesitant.

“Hi. I…I need you to come back here.” And then Addison can hear how heavily Mark breathes out, and it almost comes across like a disbelieving chuckle.

“I think I’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“Even more reason for me to stay away. Red, I -”

“He’s not here,” Addison repeats. “He’s coming back in the morning to get…to get his stuff. But I need – I think I might need stitches.”

There is a long pause, and then: “ _Addison_.” Mark’s voice comes out croaky, breaking between the second and third syllables.

“No, it’s not what you think,” she says quickly. “He didn’t do anything. I just…I didn’t have shoes on, and I was outside and I stepped on some glass…I think. I can’t look at it.”

“Why were you -”

“ _Mark_. I can’t…he’s not coming back and I can’t do the stitches myself. Please.” Addison’s breath stalls, and then she exhales raggedly. “Please come back. I need you. Please.”

“I’m on my way. Keep your foot elevated.”

. .  
. .

Mark was too sleepy when he was woken up by Jenny to give today’s plans much thought, so he didn’t really think through what he should bring, and in classic Jenny fashion, they are missing some things. No, this isn’t a typical trip to the lake because it’s too early to swim, which is fine, but there are still some basics they are lacking: towels, water bottles, sunscreen, and maybe some beach toys, even though Mark feels too old to get down in the sand and play with a shovel. It’s the sort of stuff Carolyn Shepherd would have remembered though – she would have had it packed the night before, actually. But then, Mrs. Shepherd is just a _natural_ at being a mother. It seems easy for her. For as long as Mark can remember, he has had the sense that being a parent doesn’t come naturally to Jenny. He knows that since he’s only a kid, he doesn’t understand everything going on around him, but he still feels like he understands a lot of things, and in particular, how to _cope_ with certain things. This is just who Jenny is, and there isn’t really anything Mark can do about that.

He watches his mother now, peering up at her from beneath the brim of his Yankees cap as they stand almost knee-deep in Skaneateles Lake. Mark has been told all his life that he looks like Jenny – more like her than Everett, at least. Jenny used to do something called “print modeling,” and Mark knows that it was on a photoshoot that she met Everett. Everett’s then-company apparently owned the building where Jenny’s pictures were being taken. Mark doesn’t understand much about what it was that Jenny was doing and who she was doing it for while she worked in her late teens and early twenties, but he can understand why people would want to take pictures of Jenny. His mother is tall and graceful-looking, with a wide smile and long, golden brown hair that hangs past her shoulders. Her eyes are the same color as Mark’s, but they are bigger and wider, and the lashes that frame them are as long as any one of Mark’s fingernails, even without the goopy-looking black stuff Jenny coats them in. She’s just…pretty. Really pretty. And Mark feels like it’s _gross_ to think that about his mom _because_ she’s his mom, but he can’t think of any other mom he’s seen in real life who is prettier than Jenny. She’s prettier than some of the TV moms, too, actually.

Jenny lightly nudges Mark’s shoulder. “I know it’s kind of cold.”

“It’s okay. I like it.” The water is definitely cold, so much so that it has turned Mark’s legs and feet strawberry-red, but it feels sort of nice anyway. The water is a beautiful blue that seems to stretch forever, and it’s so clean and shiny that at certain spots in the distance Mark swears he can see the clouds above them reflected in the water.

“I really am sorry about yesterday, Mark. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Why…why were you like that?”

“I take pills sometimes, to help with…my nerves. And you’re not really supposed to drink alcohol – you know, like cocktails and stuff – when you take special medication. Or drink at all, really. But yesterday I was drinking, and I guess…I guess I wasn’t very careful.”

“Can you just…” Mark inhales so deeply that his shoulders nearly rise up to his ears. “Can you just not drink? Or just…not do it very much?”

This is the only life Mark knows, but he is old enough now that he can look outside of his own home situation and make comparisons. And when it comes to comparisons, Mark always jumps first to his best friend and his best friend’s parents. He has seen Mr. Shepherd sometimes have a beer with dinner, and as far as Mrs. Shepherd…Mark doesn’t think he’s ever seen her drink, but he figures she does from time to time. And even in Mark’s immediate family, Everett usually has a beer when he gets home from work, and sometimes a glass of wine with dinner, but that’s it. Everett doesn’t ever get “drunk” or “sloppy.”

Jenny does though. She does a lot.

“I can try, Mark. I _will_ try,” Jenny says. “I know it seems like I’m choosing to do this, and that’s kind of true, but it’s just – it’s just not always that easy for certain people to stop. I’m one of those people. But I know that…I know that I’m not always a very good mom, and that I…disappoint you.”

“You don’t disappoint me, Jenny.”

It’s a lie though. A _white lie_. Mark learned about this concept recently. He and Derek were in the Shepherds’ kitchen a few weeks ago, picking over chocolate chip cookies while Carolyn expertly multitasked (as usual), sliding another tray in the oven, balancing a sleepy-eyed Amy on one hip, and admiring a drawing that little Lizzie was holding out to show her. And the drawing, well. Mark caught a glimpse of it, and it really just looked like a brown scribble.

“You can turn around now, son,” Mrs. Shepherd said once Lizzie was out of the room. She was busy securing the drawing to the fridge with alphabet magnets, and the timing of the comment surprised Mark; Derek’s mom wasn’t even looking at him, but somehow she _knew_ that when Lizzie showed her the picture, Derek was going to have to turn around to hide the fit of giggles threatening to bubble from him.

“Mom…” Derek quietly laughed when his mother shifted away from the fridge in order to face him. “That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like _poop_ or something.”

“It’s not ugly to _me_ , kiddo. And even if it was…it’s just a white lie. Do you know what that is?” Mrs. Shepherd grinned when both boys shook their heads. “It’s a different kind of lie. Not like if you were to lie about doing your homework, or lie about pushing someone, or lie to your parents – those are bad things and things you _shouldn’t_ lie about, ever. A white lie is something harmless though…it’s when you lie in order to not hurt someone’s feelings. You do it to be polite. Derek, you sort of just told a white lie in your own way by turning around so your sister wouldn’t see you laughing.”

Derek nodded and smiled. “So a white lie would also be like…” he ducked his head, an errant curl falling across his forehead as another laugh started to rise from him. “Like when I tell you your meatloaf tastes really good?” And then Mark laughed, too. Mrs. Shepherd is a really, really good cook (he thinks), but Derek has never liked meatloaf.

Mrs. Shepherd raised a teasing eyebrow. “Get out of my kitchen and go play before I put meatloaf on this week’s menu.”

But Mrs. Shepherd didn’t _always_ know that thing about white lies – Mark knows this for sure. Someone taught it to her. You learn things from your parents, and maybe this is how you learn to be a mom or learn to be a dad – it has to be that way, right? Mark thinks maybe he’d like to have a kid one day – a son so they can play catch – but he thinks being a parent would come easier to someone like Derek, who lives in a home where artwork (no matter how poop-like) is put on the fridge and no one gets left alone at night and _I love you_ is said a lot.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Jenny replies after Mark tells her that she doesn’t disappoint him. _That’s kind of you to say_. Mark is sure Jenny knows he’s lying – _white_ lying – but she doesn’t say anything else about it. He sort of likes that about her. And he sort of likes Lake Skaneateles, too…and this is something he can share.

“I really like it here,” he says softly.

“Me too. I haven’t been here in a long time, but when I woke up this morning, I just sort of felt the urge to come here, and for you to come with me. I dream about this place sometimes. I used to come here with my dad when I was little. Every summer actually, until I moved to Brooklyn.” Mark knows that’s where Jenny met Everett, at the photoshoot thing. They lived in Brooklyn for a few years before relocating to Syracuse for Everett’s job. And then Mark was born. “I doubt he comes here anymore though.” Jenny’s voice has gone soft, and it’s almost like she is thinking out loud rather than talking to her son. “Too far of a drive from Buffalo at his age.”

Mark’s eyebrows furrow together as he turns his mother’s words over in his head. “Wait. Your dad is alive?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“But I’ve…I’ve never met him.” Mark has never really felt like he’s had a grandparent. Everett’s parents both died by the time Mark reached Kindergarten, and since they lived in North Carolina, Mark wasn’t close with them. And Jenny said her mom died when she was a baby, and that her dad was…what was it? She told Mark once, when he asked a few years ago. _He’s no longer around_. It was something like that, which led Mark to the conclusion his maternal grandfather was also dead. And Mark apparently just didn’t care enough – or was too busy with other little boy things – to ask for more information.

He’s met Carolyn Shepherd’s parents before: Mr. and Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Shepherd told Mark that he could call them Grandpa and Grandpa if he wanted to, but it felt too weird.

“No, you haven’t,” Jenny says. “And you won’t. I don’t want you to be around him. I wish you _could_ have a grandpa, but it can’t…it can’t be him. He’s not a very nice person, Mark. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to him.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll try harder to be better mom, honey. I promise I’ll try harder.” Jenny sets her hand on Mark’s shoulder. “You know that I love you, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you too, Jenny.”

“It’s such a big, crazy world out there, but you’re going to grow up and be just fine. You’re so smart, and you’re so funny and confident – you can be anything you want to be, honestly.”

Mark smiles. “I want to be a doctor. One who saves lives.”

“You’ll be a great doctor – the best doctor. And one day you’ll meet someone special, and then maybe have a kid of your own…if you want to, I mean. You don’t have to. If that happens though – if you want it to happen – you’ll realize how much you’re capable of loving someone. And you’ll do absolutely anything to make the people you care about feel loved and safe.”

. .  
. .

Mark wonders if he should have stayed. He’s been agonizing over it, because it’s not like he realistically thought he would get any sleep tonight. Or, actually, more specifically, he wonders if he should have tried _harder_ to stay when Derek walked in on them. Addison scrambled off Mark with a surprised shriek – or something between a shriek and a scream, Mark reflects – and Mark sat up quickly, reaching for his briefs, which were tangled somewhere between the comforter and the flannel sheets. Derek’s back was to them by this point, and though he was facing the window, Mark doubted his friend was really actually seeing anything.

“Derek -”

“Get out, Mark.” Derek’s fists were clenched together and he was breathing heavily. “Just – just get out.”

And that was that. Mark grabbed the rest of his clothes as fast as he could, pulling them on haphazardly while moving down the hallway. He stepped into his shoes, picked his leather jacket up off the stairs, and was out the arched front door. He was nearly at Central Park – practically jogging during the worst rainstorm the City has seen so far this year – before he finally flung an arm out to hail a cab.

Mark thinks about how many times he pushed Addison to tell Derek the truth. It never occurred to him that maybe _he_ could be the one to tell his best friend about the affair. It just didn’t seem right, and it definitely didn’t seem fair to Addison. But then tonight, when faced with an opportunity to say something – say _anything_ , especially anything about tonight’s encounter being something that didn’t _just happen_ – Mark didn’t fight. He didn’t fight for himself, for her, for them.

And he also didn’t get to say how sorry he was.

And now Mark is back at the brownstone, all because Addison called him. Even without the mention of stitches though, he suspects if Addison needled him a bit more, he would have returned. He always does. Even when he’s cowardly, even when he’s selfish, even when he wants to make a point – he’d do anything for her. All she has to do is ask.

“Sorry,” Addison says quietly when Mark opens the front door, which she left unlocked. She gestures towards her long, bare legs. “I meant to put more clothes on.” She still only has her panties on and a CBGB shirt she pulled out of the nearest drawer – Derek’s drawer – when she climbed off Mark. It seemed easier and quicker than trying to locate wherever her shirt got tossed. She did mean to put pants on, she really did, but she didn’t want to go back upstairs, even before the incident with her foot and the glass happened.

“It’s okay,” Mark answers, voice equally quiet. He is momentarily distracted by the wet, dirt-streaked comforter and clothing bunched up at the foot of the stairs. He can sort of figure out what happened, and how Addison ended up with glass in her foot, but now really isn’t the time to break down the events that took place after his departure. He walks over to Addison, first aid kit in hand.

Addison recognizes what Mark is doing when he sets his kit down. He looked briefly at the bottom of her foot, but now his eyes are carefully raking over her face, neck, arms, and legs, assessing for any signs of harm.

“You honestly think he’d hit me, Mark? That he’d hurt me like that?”

“No,” he admits. _No_ , Mark can’t imagine Derek ever actually hurting her. _Not like we hurt him_ , he thinks. “But when you said stitches…that scared the hell out of me.” He wouldn’t ever admit when he scared as a little boy. Hell, he doesn’t like to admit it now, either, but it’s the truth. He was terrified in that moment. Love can heighten fear.

Addison nods in understanding. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t think about how that sounded…I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s okay. Do you have any blankets down here?”

“For…for what?”

“For you, Addie.” He squeezes her cold hand. He gestures with his free hand to the gooseflesh covering her arms like ineffective armor, and then to her damp, tangled hair. “You’re freezing.”

“Oh.”

Mark stares at her for a moment, but when she looks blankly back at him – as though the concept of coldness has not occurred to her – he prompts her again. “So…blankets?” He initially thought about draping his jacket around Addison, but it’s still pouring outside, so the leather material has water clinging to it, and it’s nowhere near as comforting as a blanket would feel.

“Um…” Addison looks right at a large wicker basket on the other side of the living room that has a few throw blankets shoved into it, and Mark follows her gaze. “I don’t know.” Her words come out funny, come out wrong. Mark lets go of her hand though and goes to retrieve some blankets. He moves slowly and carefully – recognizing how fragile and lost inside herself she currently is – as he wraps two blankets around her shoulders and spreads another over her legs. And then he turns his attention back to her foot, lifting it gingerly so that more of the light from a nearby floor lamp casts over it.

He cleans the area, and warns Addison of the uncomfortableness that is coming when he pinches the shard of glass between his tweezers, but she doesn’t flinch when he removes it.

“It actually doesn’t need stitches. It was a clean sliver,” Mark informs her. “I’m just going to clean it up a bit more and bandage it. Maybe lay off the heels for a few days though and try to keep the pressure off it. But no stitches.”

“Okay. Thank you,” she whispers. “It was…it was his ring,” she adds after a lengthy pause, tilting her chin towards the coffee table, where Mark now sees Derek’s abandoned wedding band. “He must have…he must have taken it off when he went out to his car. And just…let it fall in the gutter.”

“Addison.” Mark moves further up the couch. “Come home with me.”

Tears fill Addison’s eyes. “But this… _this_ is my home. I live _here_. I…I…” she shakes her head. “He said…it’s not his house. He said to ‘get out’ of his house, but it’s…it’s _not_ his house. It’s mine, too. The down payment was thanks to me. It’s not just _his_ house.”

“I know,” Mark says quickly, not entirely understanding the context of the his-hers-ours thing Addison is rambling about, but knowing better than to ask right now. “I didn’t mean – I just don’t think you should be alone. I can go upstairs and get you something to wear.”

“But if…if I’m not back in the morning, then I won’t…” she shakes her head again, strands of hair fluttering wildly around her temples. “Derek, he – he didn’t say what time he was coming, but he’s supposed to come back in the morning. He…he said that -”

“He knows how to reach you, Red. And I’ll make sure you’re in a cab tomorrow morning as early as you want…and if…if you call Derek or he calls you or if he decides to come back home before then, you can just say you went to a hotel for the night or something.”

“Right. A hotel for the night.” Addison hangs her head. “Because what’s one more lie at this point.”

. .  
. .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **References/Nods to Various Episodes**
> 
> Grey’s 3x01. In the Derek/Addison flashback, Derek threw an armful’s worth of Addison’s clothes outside, as well as their comforter. At the end of the scene, he said he’d be back in the morning to get his clothes. I used some of the dialogue Derek/Addison exchanged throughout this chapter (not much, but some). And during that scene, Addison was wearing a CBGB shirt (presumably Derek’s). You can see Kate’s hands near her hips at the beginning of the scene and she’s sort of stumbling, so, um, most likely underwear was being put back on (I try not to watch this scene much if I can help it. It was really, really well-acted, but, oh man, the angst…I watched it while rewriting MTGOF and frankly, once was enough for my poor heart.)
> 
> Maloney is Derek’s mother maiden name. This was mentioned in Grey’s season 1.
> 
> This chapter is one of the first ones I imagined while outlining this fic. I wanted Mark to come back, but to come back at Addison’s request/on her terms (which is so much of what their relationship always was, anyway). We don’t know what Mark’s role was when Derek waked in on his wife and best friend…I imagine he tried to at least say something, but in no scenario do I imagine he really, really tried to stay and explain himself. I love the guy, but he’s kind of a coward – especially in earlier seasons – when faced with feelings-related confrontation.
> 
> Thanks for reading! It’ll be a rocky journey, but I’m going to give these two idiots a happy – though realistic – New York-based ending, and eventually tie Derek back into the fold…think something along the lines of Addison reaching out to Derek when Archer needed help, but not that specifically.


	23. Look at the Stars Fall Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from the song “Same Mistake” by James Blunt. This chapter is kind of a long one and is sad and angst-heavy (the next one is too), but there is also a drunk trio and a happy trio flashback in here, so at least there’s that! As always, reviews are appreciated. :)

**Chapter 23. Look at the Stars Fall Down**

“I can get you something to wear,” Mark volunteers once Addison has gloomily agreed that going back to his place for the remainder of the night is _probably for the best._ He figures it would be easier to just gather her stuff for her – clothes and anything else she asks for – so that she can stay off her injured foot for a little longer. Mark also gets the sense that she has zero interest in returning to the scene of tonight’s extramarital crime right now. “Can you just tell me what you need, maybe?”

“Um. Yes. Um…” Addison screws her eyes shut, trying to think. “Just a bra and some sweatpants. The long dresser in our room…” she shakes her head and opens her eyes again. _Our_. It’s still accurate, except it’s not. It’s not. “My stuff is in the drawers on the righthand side.”

“Okay. What about shoes?”

“Yes,” she answers woodenly. “Shoes. I…I need shoes.”

Mark paces up the stairs, reciting a list of items in his head, both the ones Addison told him to get, and other practical ones that went unmentioned: a bra, sweatpants, socks, some sort of coat, and shoes. He thought his last question was clear enough that Addison would tell him what _kind_ of shoes, and where specifically to find a comfortable pair hidden among the designer heels lining what Mark has previously been informed is an entire side of Derek and Addison’s walk-in closet, several rows high. _Addison’s_ _personal Mecca_ , Derek once joked.

It feels uncomfortable for Mark to be fishing through the dresser, experimentally opening and closing a few drawers in order to locate socks, a pair of dark gray sweatpants, and a bra – it just seems so intimate and personal, and also just plain weird when it comes to trying to decide which bra to grab for Addison. Mark finds one he recognizes though – a no-nonsense and full-coverage, decidedly unsexy beige one. He is sure Addison has had it awhile, but it only started coming into their clothes-then-naked rotation a few weeks ago. He knew the first time he peeled off her dress and saw it, that it was a sign they had transitioned into a new stage in their relationship: not feeling the need to always wear lacy, cleavage-spilling-out lingerie in front of the man – well, one of the men – that she loves.

Mark doesn’t like Addison and Derek’s bedroom, though he has tried _not_ to focus extra hard on the details; the guiltiness of being in here with his best friend’s wife was bad enough without compiling observations about the artwork, mahogany-stained furniture, and some sort of large-leafed plant positioned close to their TV. Mark had never been in this room before the first time he and Addison had sex here, not in all the years his friends owned the brownstone. They gave him an official tour when they first moved in, but while they were upstairs, Addison simply flicked her wrist towards the end of the hallway, indicating hers and Derek’s bedroom (“And that’s the master”), which was not too far from the guest room (“Your room, Mark,” Derek teased during the walk-through). That was it.

The bedroom is just…cold-looking. Like the happiness and warmth were sucked out of it long ago. Mark knows the same critique could be applied to his own apartment, with its monochromatic gray and all the sleek chrome surfaces, but something about the color of Addison and Derek’s walls in here – a pastel bluish-purple – and the black and white wall prints everywhere juxtaposed against polished furniture vaguely depresses him. And Mark has never understood their bed. King-sized. Yes, space is nice, but wouldn’t Derek want to be as close to Addison as possible while sleeping? Mark would, if he was in his best friend’s shoes.

 _Shoes_. Mark heads into the closet, pausing first to pick up a silky-looking blouse that must have slipped off a hanger. Then he notices a large gap along the closet rod, a Red Sea parting that he imagines is the section of Addison’s clothes Derek must have grabbed to fling outside. Mark gathers a wool peacoat into his arms, and mulls over a few casual-looking footwear options at the far end of the closet, ultimately selecting a pair of flat, sheepskin-lined boots he can’t picture Addison ever wearing anywhere outside of the house.

“I called for a cab while I was upstairs…” Mark announces when he returns to the living room. He walks back over to Addison, holding out the clothes and boots for her. She doesn’t reach for anything though; she is staring distractedly at her cell phone. “The cab should be here in a few minutes. Let me know if you don’t like any of my fashion choices...I can always get you something else. Addie…?”

“Sorry.” She sets her phone back on the coffee table. “I was just setting the alarm on my phone for tomorrow. I set it for five-thirty. I know that’s early…I’ll try not to wake you up when I leave.”

“It’s okay.” Mark puts the boots on the floor and sets the clothes next to her, and while Addison gets the rest-of-the-way dressed, he distracts himself by going into the kitchen to collect her purse (he remembers she put it there when they arrived at the brownstone this afternoon…which feels like a lifetime ago). He wants to tell her that five-thirty is way too early, that she doesn’t need to leave at that hour, but he also doesn’t want to wipe away the glimmer of hopefulness that crossed over Addison’s face when she shared this plan. Mark knows she’d prefer to beat Derek back to the house by several hours rather than several minutes, and he knows what else she’s thinking, too: that maybe, just maybe, when Addison sees her husband tomorrow, she can convince him to stay.

Maybe things will be different in the morning.

. .  
. .

“Now – that. Okay.” Mark points towards Addison as she rounds a corner and approaches one of the New York Hospital waiting areas where he and Derek have been sitting since their shift ended. Mark smirks in satisfaction, eyes moving back and forth between his two friends. “ _That_ is what I’m talking about. That face so clearly says that Baby Bennett is here.”

“Baby Bennett _is_ here,” Addison replies cheerfully, swinging her blue and turquoise scrub cap in her hand. “Seven pounds, three ounces. I can’t tell which parent she looks like, but she’s absolutely adorable. We can go see them now, and then we can get the hell out of here.”

All three of them sigh inwardly with pure, blissful relief at Addison’s last remark. They are off tomorrow, _finally_. Long weeks are the norm when it comes to being surgical residents, but this week in particular felt really, _really_ long.

“Oh, and on a _me_ -related note,” Addison shares, “I was supervised the whole time, but I got to deliver the kid. What did I miss here though?”

“Mark is making fun of my doctor faces.”

“I think you make great doctor faces, Doctor Shepherd,” Addison tells Derek. “Your other half disagrees?”

 _Other half_. Other half and better half. It’s become another joke between the three of them. They are inching closer and closer to their third year of residency, and somehow the second year feels even more exhausting than the first. And at the end of a long shift last month, Mark was walking alongside Addison and asked her, “Where is the other one?” _The other one._ Because apparently names are just too, too hard when you’ve reached the point where your eyes are half-closed while you’re upright.

Mark wanted to just go home and fall face-first into his bed tonight, but Derek asked if he wanted to come over for a bit and have a drink – to celebrate Sam and Naomi’s baby arriving, and honestly, just to celebrate this damn week being over – and Mark agreed immediately. They are his friends, after all, and everything is great, despite the exhaustion. It really is great. There is the scrub-gown-glove of being a surgeon, the thrilling opportunity to cut (even if still under the close observation of superiors), and the excitement of splitting off into specialties and looking towards eventual fellowships. It is all worth it, even when it leaves him and his friends with a heavy-limbed sort of fatigue at the end of each day.

Mark inclines his head towards Derek following Addison’s query. “What I think is that _he_ thinks I’m the crazy one for not being able to tell from what across the hall during post-ops what he’s trying to tell me with his face.”

“It was a meaningful look, Mark.”

“First of all, maybe don’t give me _meaningful_ looks.”

“Okay, just watch.” Derek twists away from Addison, and then slowly turns back around in his chair so that she can observe the specific expression Mark has critiqued. Addison watches her husband, studying him closely. His head is cocked slightly to the side, and his lips are pressed in a thin line, stretched just a bit at the corners, a hint of a smile attempting to work its way through. And then Derek carefully explains this was supposed to be an “excited, but also reflects a measured calm” face indicative of the fact that Naomi was still in labor, but everything was fine.

“I guess I kind of see it…” Addison says slowly, giving it some more consideration. She’s not lying, but she also knows that she’s at least questioning her version of truthfulness. She does kind of see it, yes, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because it’s a perfect expression, or because of her love for her husband’s face in general.

“It should be more like this.” Mark ducks his head down in preparation, and then lifts it back up, his features arranged in a way that immediately triggers Addison to laugh.

“Mark,” she says, “that face is basically the same one Derek just made. Gosh, you guys really are the same person sometimes.”

“Sorry for that – I know one of us is bad enough,” Mark replies with an easy smirk. “We apparently haven’t done enough studying at the feet of the expert. Your faces have always been clear…whenever we used to rotate together, it was obvious whether you were going to tell a patient good news, bad news, or vague, wait-and-see news.”

Addison raises an eyebrow. “Am I that easy to read?”

Derek shrugs and gets to his feet. “Well, if Mark says so, then perhaps it’s true,” he answers with a small, tired smile. “C’mon. Let’s go meet this special Addison-delivered baby and then go home.”

. .  
. .

“Cold,” Addison mumbles into Mark’s jacket collar. She has tucked her legs up on the back seat, knees digging into one of Mark’s thighs while he cuddles her closer during the cab ride back to his apartment. He is holding her against his chest and keeps working a hand over her forearms to try to draw some warmth back into her, but it doesn’t seem to be helping yet.

“I know.” He brushes a few strands of still-damp hair away from her glistening eyes. They showered at the brownstone before Derek walked in on them, and her hair was still a little wet while they were tangled together in the flannel sheets – _air-drying_ , Addison told him at one point when she leaned forward and the curtain of red tresses fell around Mark, tickling the stubble framing his jawbone. And then of course being outside during the storm got Addison wet all over again. “Do you maybe…want to take a shower when we get to my place?”

“Twice today wasn’t enough for you, Mark? Going for a Hat Trick?”

Mark can’t tell if Addison is trying to be funny, is simply joking about today’s two sexual rounds in the shower, or if she’s being mean, petty. Addison’s words all sound so hollow right now. “You know that’s absolutely not why I’m asking if you want to hop in the shower,” he says, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Right. Sorry,” she replies quietly. “I think…I think maybe I’ll just towel-dry my hair and then we…we can sleep. I’m so tired.”

“Okay.” He nudges at her shoulder, desperately trying to come up with something to say that might make her smile. He’d do anything to see her smile right now, honestly. “I’ll let you pick out the colors on the nightlight tonight,” he finally adds when their driver slows in front of Mark’s building.

Addison scoots away from him, heading towards the door. “It doesn’t matter,” she says.

They walk close to one another as they approach the building, a little slower due to the cut on the bottom of Addison’s foot. Mark’s arm is anchored around her waist, offering some support. She’s not quite limping, but she’s certainly not comfortable.

Mark arranges a small, forced smile onto his face in preparation for the doorman in the lobby. _Carlos_ , Mark almost tells Addison, because even in the wake of her distress, he knows she’ll ask him the name of the doorman who works the late-night shift. And usually, it’s Carlos. Except –

“Oh. Hey,” Mark calls out when Thomas appears from behind the reception area. “You’re working late,” he adds, feeling odd for pointing this out.

“I’m covering for Carlos for a bit. His kid is…” Thomas trails off when Addison comes into better view. His eyes rake over her in concern, and Mark doesn’t blame him. Her hair is frizz-framed and disheveled, and her cried-down mascara looks like a gathering of ashes on the delicate curves of skin beneath her lower eyelids. Their cabbie had also raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror when they climbed into the darkened backseat. “Rough night,” Mark said, which was enough to make the guy grunt in acknowledgment and then look away. Mark suspected the cabbie’s reaction was more about the car than anything else, because the easiest assumption to make based on Addison’s current appearance is that she is drunk, which inevitably heightens the risk of puking in a moving vehicle.

 _Too bad drunkenness isn’t the issue here_ , Mark thinks. It seems so easy and quaint compared to what is actually going on.

“Hi, Thomas.” Addison says, blank-faced. “I’m okay, Thomas. Just kind of a rough night.” She decides to echo Mark’s earlier statement.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Thomas responds, and he genuinely does look sorry. “Do you – either of you – need anything?”

“Just the ability to go back in time so that my husband didn’t walk in on us in bed together,” Addison tells Thomas, almost sing-song like, while they are passing by on the way to the elevator. Mark can just make out the ruby-red flush that rises in Thomas’s cheeks before their backs are to him.

“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” Addison murmurs during their elevator ride, dazedly leaning against Mark. She reaches down and threads her fingers through his _._

 _Of course you’d choose to hold my hand now,_ Mark thinks. He grips her fingers a little tighter, meaning for the gesture to be comforting, but he can’t ignore the feeling of bitterness that swirls in his chest. _No one is here. And I’m your only choice._

“Did he know?” Addison continues, allowing Mark to lead her out of the elevator and down the hall to his apartment. “It’s been a long time since Derek and I have come here together to see you, but…I always wondered if Thomas knew.”

“I don’t know, Red.” Mark lets go of her hand so that he can reach into his jacket pocket to grab his key. “I don’t know.”

He touches her lower back once they are inside, guiding her towards his bedroom. Addison slips out of her coat on the way, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the floor, and she makes no attempt to pick it up (which, in Mark’s eyes, is a sign more than anything else he has witnessed tonight that she isn’t okay).

Mark helps her to the edge of his bed and encourages her to take a seat while he gets her a sweatshirt. It has occurred to him that in the absence of a coat, Addison probably needs something a little warmer on top. She still seems chilled to the core.

“Here.” Mark yanks out the first crewneck his fingertips brush over in his bottom drawer. “Put this on for now, and then just lie down and rest. I’m going to get some water for us; I’ll be right back.” He dims the bedroom lights just a little on his way out. Mark wonders if he should have asked Addison if she wants to wash her face or brush her teeth (there is a just-for-Addison spare toothbrush here) or dry her hair before getting into bed, but he seriously doubts any of these are a priority for her right now, and if nothing else, Addison knows where the bathroom is if she wants to do any of the above.

By the time Mark returns with two glasses of water, Addison has put the sweatshirt on, but she hasn’t moved. She gives him a crooked, sad smile instead and points to the faded shield on his UPenn sweatshirt.

“Leges sine moribus vanae,” she recites, and while Mark isn’t sure if that is the correct pronunciation, it sounds convincing (and he figures whatever preppy, one-percent high school Addison went to probably did offer Latin). “Laws without morals are useless.” Her reddened eyes blink sadly and knowingly, and it only takes a moment for those beautiful blue-green eyes to overflow with tears again. Mark sighs softly.

They have discussed this motto before, of course. And there are no morals left tonight, with or without laws in place.

“Addison…let’s lie down now, okay?”

Mark hugs her close once they are under the comforter, and Addison cries in his arms, her sobs achingly rough as they land in a steady rhythm against his chest. Mark cycles through any gestures of physical affection he thinks might help her to relax; he strokes her hair, thumbs away the tears on her face, and rubs her back. Nothing seems to help though, because really nothing actually _can_ be done to help. Tonight happened. They can’t undo that. And wishing tonight didn’t happen also won’t work – tonight, or all of it, because there wouldn’t have been a tonight without the _all of it_.

If only though. Mark understands now that this is a part of what true love is. He doesn’t want to take any of this back with Addison. He wants her, and he wants her to just want _him_. But if a magic button was placed before Mark and some divine-like being told him pressing the button would fix Addison’s marriage and make her happy, even if that meant none of this – him and her – could have ever happened, he would press it.

Mark wants to tell that he loves her, but he thinks that might somehow be too big of a burden for Addison to have to hold onto right now.

“It’s going to be okay, Red,” he offers instead of a declaration of love, even though he knows she won’t want to hear that. But this is what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?

“It’s not o-okay,” Addison responds, words spaced out by sad hiccups. “He left. He really left. And he d-doesn’t…he doesn’t w-want me back.”

 _I want you though_ , Mark wants to tell her.

“We’re such awful people,” she cries out, and Mark doesn’t feel like a counter argument is warranted, so he just brushes his lips soothingly to her hairline, and keeps rubbing her back. She inhales sharply and buries her head beneath his chin.

“Addison…try to get some sleep,” Mark says once the breaks between her sobs seem to be lengthening. “And I’m here, okay? I’m right here.”

Mark knows that she understands he’s physically here if she needs anything. He wonders though if Addison also knows that he means that he is _here_ , for as long as she wants him to be here, and in whatever capacity she wants him.

He is here. And the husband Addison is crying over is not.

. .  
. .

“Naomi’s body knew to go into labor on a day when I was scheduled to be off the next day.” Addison beams widely, and then takes a long, messy swig of her beer. “And _God_ knew, too. God just _knew_ , you guys.” She moves the back of her hand across her upper lip, swiping away any lingering flecks of moisture.

“You’re not religious, honey.”

Addison lifts her chin, challengingly, as though her husband’s remark is something beyond just a simple, truthful observation. “I _could_ be,” she says insistently.

Mark laughs while reaching for another beer. “No, you’re just drunk,” he states. He’s getting there too though. It’s already been decided that he’s crashing on Derek and Addison’s couch tonight. It’s a very ugly, heavy futon couch (but comfortable) that his friends told Mark he can have. Derek and Addison are currently looking to buy a home near Central Park, and they want to get new furniture once they’ve moved out of this apartment. “Hey,” Mark lifts his drink up, and it occurs to him that if he’s happily giving a toast, he’s definitely tumbled over the line that divides _sober enough_ and _drunk_. “Here’s to Maya, the proud new parents, and the proud new godparents.”

“No, no,” Derek tells him. “To the godmother, and to the godmother’s better half. Sam’s cousin is the godfather, actually. They’re pretty close.” Derek clinks the neck of his beer against Addison’s and leans forward to catch her gaze. “I guess we don’t do everything together, after all.”

“You’ll get a chance one day,” Addison says. “You’ll be the godfather to our baby, and -”

“Wow. Please try again,” Derek interrupts, chuckling and shaking his head. “I’d like to think I’d be a little more than just the _god_ father to our baby, Addie.”

“Oh, right. Right, right, right! Well, you know what I was _trying_ to say. Derek, listen. _Listen_.”

“I am. I’m listening.”

“You’ll be the father-not-godfather to our baby, obviously, but then you’ll be the godfather to Mark’s baby, and he’ll be the godfather to ours,” she says with a smile. “See? I know how to explain things.”

“One day. She’s not pregnant,” Derek clarifies when he notices Mark look over at him, eyes holding a question. “Wait.” Derek turns back to Addison, and his beer tips clumsily in his hand. Apparently no one is sober anymore. “You’re _not_ , right?”

“If she is, that kid is more scotch and beer right now than it is an embryo,” Mark mutters. They have moved on from hard alcohol, mostly because the Ardbeg is on the counter, and the beer they picked up at the corner bodega is on the kitchen table, where they’re currently seated. _Beer is here,_ Addison said when Mark asked if anyone wanted more scotch (he wasn’t exactly volunteering to stand up and get it though). And how hard Addison giggled at her inadvertent rhyme was definitely the first indicator she was tipsy.

“I’m not pregnant,” Addison says. “And also, don’t even _try_ to explain pregnancy to me, Mark. I know what you think about my specialty.”

“I didn’t -”

“But anyway…” Addison speaks over Mark while reaching for another beer. “We’ll be the godparents to Mark’s kid, and he’ll be the godparent to ours. It’s like the Law of Transitive Property.”

“It’s really not though,” Mark says. “And just in case it needs to be put on the record, I haven’t knocked anyone up…”

“Yet…” Derek replies with a cheeky grin.

“Nor do I plan to. Sorry, man, but I guess Addison is gonna be one godkid up on you for the foreseeable future. But, _on_ that note, if I am the godparent, and if, like, something were to – and obviously nothing _would_ , and I shouldn’t even say it, but -”

“Godparent doesn’t automatically equally legal guardian, Mark. Don’t worry,” Derek says with assurance, which prompts Mark to heavily exhale. It is done with humor, but of course there is an element of seriousness to it, too. It’s been years since Mark has assumed he would have kids, and years since he has even thought he _wanted_ kids. “You’re just on the hook for the fun, easy stuff. If anything were to happen to Addie and me…” Derek looks at Addison. “We’d go with Kathleen, right?”

“We would,” Addison agrees. “But we don’t have to worry about that, because we are never, ever, ever going to die. And _you_ are never, ever, ever going to die either, Mark.”

“Does she come with an off button?” Mark asks Derek.

“No,” he replies with a grin, “but at least you’re free to walk away from her whenever you want to. The husband has no such luxury.”

. .  
. .

Mark’s eyes slowly open when he feels impatient, restless movement in his arms. Addison is wriggling against him, pushing at his chest and gasping. He moves a hand up to cup her cheek, intending to soothe her, assuming she is having a bad dream or has simply woken up, remembered, and started to cry again. Mark blinks, waiting for his vision to become less fuzzy. It is still dark out, but he didn’t dim the bedroom lights very much and he never turned off his nightstand lamp, so fortunately he will soon be able to get a clear picture of what exactly is going on.

(They never turned his galaxy nightlight on. Like Addison said: it doesn’t matter.)

It has been a long, long night so far. It took Addison about an hour to fall asleep. She just kept crying into Mark’s chest, long after he encouraged her to close her eyes and try to get some rest. Her fingers were knotted around the collar of his shirt, and her tears dripped hot and fast between them. And she was talking. Talking in between the crying, talking in short, clipped sentences that lacked transitions and often lacked any semblance of coherency. _I told Derek I wanted him to be around more, but I never tried to define it, like list out what I actually needed_ … _I should have tried harder_ … _I’ve been so selfish_ … _I was lazy about the marriage, too_ … _he grabbed me and threw me outside and I didn’t think he was going to let me back in_...

Mark’s stomach clenched in concern when Addison shared the _outside_ comment, but before he could grovel for more information and determine if he actually _does_ need to take a swing at his best friend, Addison moved on to other crying-talking observations: _we could have tried couples’ counseling_ … _I’m a cheater_... _I’m such a terrible person_... _I’m no better than my parents_... _my life is over now…_

Every single comment that Mark has heard from Addison tonight (or maybe this morning, because although he can’t see the clock on his nightstand and doesn’t have his phone near him, he suspects they have tipped past midnight now) indicates that she still wants Derek. She wants her husband back. Which means she doesn’t want _him_.

“Sick,” she chokes out now, trying harder to fight her way out of Mark’s embrace. And then he realizes the gasping he thought he was hearing is actually gagging. There are bubbly sounds stalling in Addison’s throat, and her chest is heaving from the effort of trying not to throw up in his bed. Or at all, if she can help it. “Sick,” she repeats, whimpering.

Mark helps Addison get out of bed and quickly brings her to the bathroom, half-dragging her as she sinks to the floor in front of the toilet and starts to vomit. He kneels behind her, using one hand to scrape his fingers through her hair, gathering it into his fist to keep it pulled back, and gently resting the other hand on her back while she empties the contents of her stomach. _Just straight bile at this point_ , Mark assumes.

“Sorry about this,” Addison mumbles a few minutes later. She has dry heaved several times, but nothing else has come up since the initial bout of sickness. She rotates her face to the side so that she can rest one of her temples against the cool porcelain. Her watery, bloodshot eyes connect with Mark’s.

“It’s okay.” Mark lets her hair fall out of his hand. “You don’t have to be sorry, Red. Are you feeling a little better? We should probably stay here for a bit just in case -”

“There was…there was so much blood,” she weeps.

Mark glances down at her sock-covered foot, wondering if he is about to see a pool of red spreading through the material. Nothing though. _Of course it’s nothing_ , he reminds himself, annoyed over that half-second of self-doubt. He might fuck up every other aspect of his life, but he is a brilliant surgeon. He doesn’t make mistakes. The subtle movement and manipulation of tissue, the rotating and suturing of skin, the opportunity to be an artist and a scientist, and the fact that he can picture the outcome, not just the visual result – it all makes sense to Mark. It sustains him. He can heal the inside and the outside of a person, because despite what most of the people in his life think – including his closest friends at times – it’s never _just_ cosmetic and it isn’t always shallow and it doesn’t always involve a patient who willingly signed up for whatever pain they’ll be guaranteed to experience post-procedure _._

He has always appreciated the irony of his line of work. There is a certain amount of selflessness that comes with being a healer. Mark can help anyone in need of medical intervention. He just can’t ever seem to help or fix himself. He consistently finds ways to destroy anything good that comes along in his life. And tonight? Tonight he was a co-conspirator in the destruction of a marriage.

 _You have more raw talent than another other intern here, and the steadiest hands I’ve ever seen,_ an attending told Mark during his first year of residency. _But your bedside manner and communication skills are poor, and you’re not really a team player. You need to work on those things. Shepherd and Montgomery both have you beat there. You’re selfish, Sloan._

“Your foot is fine, Addison.” Mark strokes her back while she whimpers and cries. “I promise. Whatever you saw earlier after you stepped on glass, your foot -”

“No, not…” she closes her eyes for a moment, and he sees her try to shake her head without lifting it off the seat of the toilet. “I mean when Bizzy…when I found Bizzy…”

Mark is not sure why her mother’s suicide attempt is on Addison’s mind, if this is just the place that pain has escorted her to, or if something triggered her. It’s being locked inside, trapped in small spaces, that has unsettled Addison in the past. But then Mark considers if what she said earlier about Derek throwing her outside earlier is true, she was certainly trapped in that sense, too. Stuck. Wanting to be somewhere else. A bystander in her own life and nothing more. Mark gets that, honestly.

“Oh,” he whispers sadly while she continues to cry about Bizzy and maybe-not-Bizzy. “Honey…”

“Don’t.” Addison does raise her head this time, and she twists to face him, wild-eyed and furious as she shrieks at him. “ _Don’t_ call me that.” Her hand bats at the crook of Mark’s elbow, angrily knocking his hand away from her back. “Derek sometimes…I sometimes…”

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to…” Mark’s cheeks burn red, but before he can cobble together an explanation, a more thorough apology for using a name that doesn’t and won’t ever belong to him, Addison starts to vomit again. _Honey_. Yes, he has heard Derek and Addison call each other that from time to time; it would slip into their sentences so easily. But for Mark just now, it wasn’t meant to be pet name-ish. He’s never thought of calling Addison anything remotely lovey-dovey, because that’s not who they are as a couple, or whatever the hell it is that they are. It was just… _instinct or something_ , Mark decides. Sympathy and empathy rolled into a single word. Jenny always called Mark “honey” when he was sick. She was a crappy, negligence-wielding parent in a lot of respects, but Mark knows she really nailed it whenever he was sick as a kid. She wiped his sweaty brow when he was feverish, outlined circles on his back whenever he threw up, stayed close to him, and would whisper _honey_ so kindly, so tenderly that in those quiet moments, Mark didn’t doubt that he was loved. _Certain words just sound like love._

There doesn’t seem to be much point in explaining this to Addison though. Mark considers that maybe it would be selfish, to make it about him.

And he’s trying really, really hard right now not to be selfish when it comes to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes
> 
> Private Practice reference: Addison delivered Maya (mentioned in PP season 3). She is also Maya’s godmother (it was never stated if Derek is the godfather…I always suspected he wasn’t).
> 
> Grey’s 2x03. Addison and Derek are discussing a patient, and arguing over whether or not it would be appropriate to operate (Derek thinks no):  
> Addison: “You’re not God, Derek.”  
> Derek: “Excuse me?”  
> Addison: “I’m sorry, honey, but you’re not. You don’t get to decide -”  
> Derek: “Wait, did you just call me ‘honey?’ Don’t call me ‘honey!’” 
> 
> Callback to Addison’s futon couch (Grey’s 3x05).
> 
> Grey’s 3x07, Mark to Meredith during one of his surgeries: “People don’t come to me to fix what’s on the outside. They come to me to fix what’s on the inside.” And on a similar note, Grey’s 3x11, Addison to Alex: “Is that why you wanted to go into plastics? ’Cause people sign up for the pain they get?”
> 
> The “God knows” comment from Addison in this chapter was a vague nod to Grey’s 3x02, when Addison tells Richard (in all the glory of her coffee-stained sweatsuit and the ugliest hat I have ever seen) that she needs the day off in order to do some drinking. There were no laboring moms that day at Seattle Grace, because, per Addison, “I think God knows I need to do some drinking today.”
> 
> Oh, and the ugly hat makes a reappearance in PP season 3, when Addison is hiking with Sam (I am 99% sure it’s the same hat). And here I was just innocently thinking that ugly-ass thing was some sort of fisherman hat that belonged to Derek. But…no. It was Addison’s hat. This was a real choice.


	24. Every Mile Leaves a Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: “This is the chapter where I manage to only write like 7 or 8 pages.”  
> Narrator: “It wasn’t.”
> 
> Chapter title is a slight twist on a lyric from the song “West,” by Sleeping At Last:  
> Another pin pushed in  
> To remind us where we’ve been.  
>  **And every mile adds up  
>  And leaves a mark on us.**
> 
> Look, do I like that this chapter title technically ends with Mark’s name? No. But here we are. Also, I’m assuming the speed of the updates isn’t bothering any readers (or the length of the chapters, because holy crap…but idk take a break halfway through and grab a snack if you need to, I guess). The speediness will slow down a bit now though; I wrote a LOT of scenes before I actually started working on this fic (figuring I’d eventually weave them into something), and I have also have had lengthy paragraphs in my head about other scenes for months now (my brain is a lot of fun), which translates to quick typing. Anyway. Hope you enjoy! There is lots of angst, but also, um, smut.

**Chapter 24. Every Mile Leaves a Mark**

The storm passes at a certain point. Gone are the flashes of lightning whipping in jagged streaks, and gone is the thunder that followed each burst of white. Addison and Mark can no longer hear droplets of rain collecting on the floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom, nor the sound of the wind heaving against the glass. It is quiet outside now.

And it is quiet in here now, too.

Just like the storm, the flares of sickness rumbling through Addison eventually come to a stop. She waits at first, stomach clenched in anticipation of more gagging, but after a few minutes have slipped by, she concludes that it is over. She mumbles an _okay_ that is probably too faint for Mark to hear, and then she pushes away from the toilet. This automatically slides her into Mark, who is sitting behind her. She doesn’t protest when he adjusts her limbs with care, moving her body around until she is slumped against him, sweat-slicked at her hairline and utterly exhausted.

It is not entirely quiet, actually, in the absence of words and the storm. Addison’s head is on Mark’s chest, and she can feel the strength of his heartbeat against her right ear. The sound is comforting. Grounding, even. The simple rhythm and expression is keeping her calm. Mark’s heart feels like so much more than just a muscular organ in this moment.

And it has been a while since Addison has cried, too. She thinks of how rain stops when there is not enough moisture left in the clouds, when the ability to hold onto anything else has been depleted. The growing, unstable heaviness that falls from the atmosphere cannot last forever. Addison wonders if the same is true for her tear ducts.

“Better?” Mark’s words rise above the heartbeat that is soothing her.

“Better,” Addison echoes. She scoots away from the warm, solid wall of his chest with some reluctance. “I think…I think I can get up now. And...and brush my teeth and wash my face. I really need to do that.”

Mark helps Addison to her feet and remains close by while she cleans herself up. She brushes her teeth first, and then scrubs fiercely at her skin when he hands her a washcloth.

“Wow, that’s lovely,” Addison murmurs with a sheepish half-smile, taking in the freckled black smears left on the washcloth once she is done washing her face. “I can take this home with me, tomorrow, if you want. And wash it.” It is a silly offer since Mark is quite capable of doing his own laundry, but she still feels like she at least has to _acknowledge_ the remains of her not-cried-away mascara.

Mark shakes his head, as expected. “Don’t worry about it. I have a washer/dryer here. And even if I didn’t…” he puts in with a burgeoning smirk, “there are plenty of interns who would happily pick up my dry-cleaning for a chance to scrub in on an ear reconstruction or jaw straightening this week.”

When they head back into the bedroom, Addison automatically goes to the pillow on the left. She has never said anything about it, and Mark has never really cared where she chooses to lie when she’s here, but eventually he was able to deduce – based on which nightstand at the brownstone was distinctly more girly – that she sleeps on the opposite side when she’s with Derek.

“I’m really sorry,” Addison says when Mark lies down beside her. He positions his pillow close to hers. “I know that…I know that I’m being a _lot_ right now.”

“To be fair, Red, you’re kind of a lot on a _good_ day too,” Mark replies with a teasing grin. The corners of Addison’s mouth twitch at this comment, and a giggle follows, as light as a thread when her breathy exhale dusts over Mark’s throat. “But you don’t need to be sorry. You’ve been through some shit tonight.”

“Are you doing okay?” She asks him quietly. 

“I texted Derek,” Mark says, which is not really an answer. “Once I got back here, I mean. I just said that I was sorry.” Well. _I’m so sorry_ , technically. “I didn’t get a response, and obviously I’m not expecting one, but…but, yeah.” It is true. Mark has no expectations. He thinks that in time, Derek could maybe find a way to forgive Addison, and be willing to reconcile, if only because they exchanged vows; Derek has always had a strong sense of duty. But would he really forgive _Mark_? It’s a friendship, maybe even a brotherhood, but it’s not a marriage. There were never any promises made; Derek has no obligation to forgive him.

_I just hope you didn’t forget the rings,_ Derek had said to Mark when they were having a light-hearted exchange before the wedding ceremony started. Mark didn’t forget the rings, but he did feel a sense of paranoia about somehow _losing_ them, so he discreetly patted his suit jacket every few minutes just to reassure himself that the rings were still inside the flap pocket. And then he handed them over to his best friends when it was time for the ring exchange. That was it. It was so uncomplicated then; Mark didn’t think about what it really meant, the weight of that commitment when those circles of white gold were released from his hand, from his charge. And he for damn sure never thought he’d be the one to take everything those rings symbolized away from them. 

“I’m sorry for leaving you,” Mark tells her. “As soon as I was out your front door, I wanted to go back, but I just…kept walking. I know me being there probably would have made it worse, but, Addison…I just…I can’t even put into words how sorry I am. I wish there was something I could do to help you. Or to just…fix this, somehow.”

“You’ve been amazing tonight, Mark. I’ve been out of my mind and I just…” a flush travels over Addison’s cheeks. “I like when you hold me,” she admits quietly.

“I still love you,” he says, words blurted out in a rush of air. “Sorry. I just…I just want you to know that.”

“Oh, Mark.” Addison’s knuckles trace a delicate line from his ear to his chin, mapping the length of his jaw. “I still love you, too. That hasn’t changed. Everything else has changed, but not…not that.”

Everything has changed. _That’s the problem_ , Mark considers, as he holds her close. The sum and the whole of it. The entire landscape of their being together – in whatever scope _being together_ is – has been altered. Where do they go from here? And more importantly, in Mark’s wide-awake eyes, where does Addison _want_ to go from here? 

Eventually, he hears a shift in Addison’s breathing, signaling that she has found a way to fall back to sleep. At least one of them will be able get some more rest tonight.   
  
. .  
. .

Addison makes a displeased face when Archer saunters through the door on a Saturday evening in mid-December. She is in the thick of studying for finals, so yes, the scowl working its way over her features is mostly jealously that her brother is done with his first semester of college and is free to _not_ study until he returns to New Haven next month, but it’s not _only_ that. She knows who he was out with this evening.

“Come on, sis.” Archer sighs when he sees the textbooks and pages of notes surrounding her. “On a Saturday night? You don’t take any exams until Wednesday. Live a little. Oh, also – can I please, _please_ be there when you break the news to the Captain? I’m dying to see the look on his face.” He grins, and although it is a joke and supposed to be meant _lovingly_ in that big brother sort of way of his…it is also not a joke, Addison feels. Her early acceptance letter to Columbia University arrived a few days ago. Montgomerys go to Yale though. It’s just what they _do_.

“Speaking of requests…can you please leave Laurel alone? Or just…tell her to leave _you_ alone?” Addison doesn’t know how it started. She just knows that her Latin tutor – well, officially Bizzy’s secretary and more of a flashcard and pronunciation-helper for Addison on the side – has been busy with Archer the past few nights. “I don’t want to lose her. And even Bizzy likes her.” Well. Sort of. _Bizzy likes her_ might be a stretch.

“I don’t know how I feel about her for the family office...” Bizzy said to Addison a few months ago when she hired Laurel. “She seems competent enough though, and polite. A little young, and she likely won’t stay more than a year, but she’ll do for now. Oh, and she studied Classics or something at Barnard, so perhaps she’d be a good resource for you?”

_I don’t know how I feel about her..._

Archer knows how he feels, apparently. And right now he shrugs at Addison, unaffected by her request. “I’m not the Captain…me messing around with Laurel isn’t grounds for an automatic dismissal from Bizzy. Don’t get so worked up. She’s not gonna quit or anything. Keep working on the deadest of all dead languages with her.”

Addison rolls her eyes. French would have been more practical, yes – and the easier choice, given that she had French lessons when she was younger and already completed three years of French at Carrington Prep with high marks – but she has no regrets about deciding to take Latin her senior year. _It’s not dead_ , she has told Archer more than once. _It’s classical and liturgical_. _And its etymologies are important to medicine. I like the idea of being a doctor who knows the origins of medical terms and conditions, not just how to treat things._ And at any rate, Addison is happy with her choice – just like she is happy with her choice to go to Columbia next fall.

“I just think that -”

“Laurel knows it’s not _serious_ , sis. You always do this.” Archer sighs in annoyance. “You get on your high horse about these things. Your time is coming though; with parents like these...what hope do we have when it comes to successful relationships?”

“You’re wrong. Maybe not about yourself,” Addison says, “but you’re wrong about me.”

“Well. Here’s hoping, I guess.”

. .  
. .

“Make sure you go back to sleep,” Addison tells Mark the next morning when they reach his front door, prepared to say goodbye. Her voice is raspy, still caked with vestiges of slumber. It is far too early to leave – Derek probably will not be back until seven at the earliest – but if nothing else, at least leaving Mark’s apartment at this hour ensures less people on the street will see Addison on a Sunday morning with disheveled, unbrushed hair and sweatpants tucked unflatteringly into a pair of boots. “I kept you up last night,” she continues, feeling remorse. Mark looks so tired. “And not even in a fun, sexy way.” Her lips stay parted for a moment. She can’t think of what else to say though. _Thank you? I’m sorry? I’m scared to go home but I’m also scared to stay here?_

“Yeah, I’ll get some more sleep.” Mark touches her elbow, meaning for the motion to be brief, but then Addison guides his hand down so that she can hold it in one of her smaller ones. “Text me later though, Red…just so that I know you’re okay. Or as okay as you can be, given the circumstances.”

He loosens his grip on her hand, and Addison’s fingers break away. The dropping motion – the _towards_ and then _away_ of the connection when Mark opens the door for her – makes her think of the quick, insistent press and release of the strings of a violin. Addison selected the instrument at eleven. She didn’t feel any earnest tug towards it, anything that made her point to a violin at the music shop instead of the harp or cello (Bizzy’s requirement was just any string instrument; Addison was fairly accomplished on the piano at this point, but her mother wanted her to be able to play something else as well). Maybe it was just curiosity. Addison took to the violin though, skilled and steady with her hands even then. She remembers her instructor telling her that when the bow moves over the strings _just right_ , the violin is an extension of the human voice, a pure and perfect canvas for emotional expression.

For some reason, she equates this description with the sound and feel of Mark’s beating heart last night.

. .  
. .

“Was that the last one?” Addison asks when Bizzy comes back into the drawing room.

“Yes. That was Susan. Susan Grant.”

“What did you think?” Addison is mainly looking for an excuse to keep the conversation going about the series of interviews her mother has just concluded. This allows Addison the opportunity to take a break from pouring over pre-med internship applications. It’s a bit overwhelming, but she keeps reminding herself that one of the benefits to an internship or some sort of summer research program is that she won’t have to spend the summer in Greenwich.

She waits for a response from her mother: _I don’t know how I feel about…_

“I quite liked her,” Bizzy replies, and Addison barely manages to avoid lifting her eyebrows in surprise. “And her résumé is good. She’s an acquaintance of the Golds – they were the ones who recommended her.”

“Oh. That’s great. I’m glad you liked her.”

_I don’t know how I feel about…_

It has always been such a common pronouncement from Bizzy. Addison has heard it all her life. _I don’t know how I feel about the new florist at Walton Flowers. I don’t know how I feel about the new housekeeper. I don’t know how I feel about one of your dance instructors – the short one._ It is such a Bizzy-way of saying, _I don’t personally care for or about the person, but I can’t write them off just yet_. It took Addison years to realize this wasn’t _just_ her mother being blindingly, maddeningly self-involved, and believing herself to be better than those who worked for her in some capacity. It was also Bizzy’s way of not getting close to anyone. 

And then a few years after Susan started working in the family office, there was Archer, ever his mother’s son, making the same observation about Derek: “I don’t know how I feel about him.”

“Shocking,” Addison replied. “You would say that about any guy I’ve been with.”

“Wait.” Archer glanced up sharply. “How many have there _been_?”

“None of your business…not that it’s anywhere near the astronomical number of women _you’ve_ probably been with. Besides, Archie…I don’t need you to feel any particular way about Derek. I’m the one who is with him, not you.”

. .  
. .

“Addison?” Mark cautiously cracks open the front door after testing the movement of the doorknob in his hand and determining it was left unlocked. If the circumstances were anything but the current circumstances, he would consider lecturing her about that; it’s not safe. He opens the pale green door a little wider, but still only enough to be able to gaze into the entryway one eye at a time. “Um...Derek?”

“In here,” Addison calls out. “And still just me,” she adds.

It takes Mark a moment to spot her. His eyes automatically go to the couch, but she is actually sitting on the floor by the far end of the coffee table. Her body is half on and half off the area rug spread beneath the table. 

Mark waits for a moment, expecting her to, at the very minimum, express signs of annoyance and offense at this drop-in visit. It would be valid; Mark didn’t contact her first. Not really, at least. She texted him in the early afternoon: _Derek left this morning_. _I’m going to lie down for a bit_ , and Mark responded immediately, asking if she was okay and if she wanted him to come over. And then he waited, and about four hours later when there was no response – and surely that’s considered the advanced end of a _lying down_ period, right? – he made his way over. He figured that worst-case scenario (and he feels bad for classifying it _that_ way), Derek would be home and would be the one to open the door. Mark would let him swing if that was the case, honestly; Derek should be allowed to get one good punch in. And at least if Derek was here, Mark would have the chance to apologize in person…even if the words fell on deaf ears.

Mark cocks his head to the side, studying Addison on the floor. “Are you…sitting shiva in his absence or something?” Addison actually seems mildly okay though. Her hair is freshly washed, soft and straight again. She’s still dressed casually – some sort of NYP shirt and matching sweats – but somehow she looks more put-together. Broken, to be sure, but there are maybe a few less cracks in the glass for right now.

Addison manages a small smile at Mark’s joke. “No. I sat down here to paint my toenails.” She tips her head towards a purple bottle on the coffee table. She actually had an appointment today for a pedicure, but canceled it. She may have cleaned herself up physically, but she certainly hasn’t cleaned up mentally and emotionally. “And then I just never stood up. I’m sorry…I’m sure you texted me back, but I put my phone away after I texted you. I just wanted to sleep for a bit.” She pats the floor beside her, and Mark comes and sits down next to her.

“Yeah. I figured you probably weren’t spending much time on it,” Mark says, feeling hesitation lodge in his throat as he considers his next question. “So Derek...he came and got clothes and stuff?”

“Yes. Two suitcases’ worth. I guess he’s just…not going into work tomorrow.” She frowns, as though this is a minor inconvenience or annoyance, rather than a life-changing event she and her husband have undergone. “There are two other surgeons at Derek’s practice, but I didn’t ask about…about his plans. He made it sound like he wasn’t going to stay in town…at least for right now.”

“Maybe he’s going to crash with one of his sisters or something?”

“Maybe.” Addison has already considered this. “He didn’t say where he was going,” she adds, which is the truth. “Probably a hotel somewhere that’s woodsy, maybe upstate. He sort of made it clear when I tried to ask…that it wasn’t my business. That seemed to be how he felt, at least.” She inhales deeply, grappling for a steadier breath. “I’ll give it another day or two before I started blowing up his phone and demanding, just like, some sort of answer.”

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” Mark asks. “It might be a good idea to take the day off – or maybe a few days.”

“I have surgery tomorrow morning to remove an SCT,” she responds. “I can’t bow out of that, but afterwards I’m going to talk to the chief to see if I can take the rest of the day off for personal reasons. Maybe a few days if she’s able to spare her head of neonatal on short notice. I think…I think work will be good for me though in the long-run. I want to keep busy. And Derek just…I tried to talk to him, but it didn’t…go well. Or go at all, really.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not right now. I can’t revisit it yet in my head. I’m hanging in there though…so you don’t have to look so worried, Mark. The initial shock has worn off and my tear ducts seem to have regained some dignity again. But thank you for asking.” Addison leans her head into his shoulder, voice teeming with affection. “I’ve always loved that about you.”

He isn’t sure what exactly she means. “Loved what about me?”

“You’ve just…always been this way. I know the emotional stuff can be uncomfortable for you and it’s not your baseline, but you’ve always been willing to listen. To just...listen and _be_ there. You never judged me or anyone else in our circle of friends. And you…you noticed me. You saw me this past fall when I was starting to feel like I was invisible.” Addison moves without warning then, so quickly that Mark inhales sharply when she straddles him.

“Addison…”

“I just want to feel good, Mark. Please…please make me feel good. I also don’t…I don’t want...” she swallows the tension worming its way into her throat. “The last time we had sex...I don’t want that to be the time that’s freshest in my memory.”

“You’re gonna feel good for a few minutes, and then you’re gonna feel like shit all over again.” Mark sighs. He’s already palming the back of her toned thighs and ass though, because no matter what alarms go off in his brain, his body never seems to be able to practice much restraint in her presence. “You know that, right?”

“I do. And I can live with that. And if you can too, then…then we can make each other feel good. I…I want you. Don’t you want me?”

Mark glances uneasily towards the front door. “What if he comes back?”

“Trust me: he’s not.” Addison leans forward and kisses him, long and slow. Their tongues sweep against each other when she parts her lips. “But…” she eventually leans back, breathing heavy and eyes hooded with desire. “You didn’t answer my question.” She smiles, almost shyly. “I asked if you wanted me.”

“Yeah, I want you.” Mark smiles back at her, and then he smiles more for himself when his searching hands discover she isn’t wearing anything under her sweats. “I always want you, Red.” His fingers move between her legs, and he fights back a groan when she sinks down, already warm and getting wet where the pads of his fingers are touching her. It’s enough for Mark to nudge her by the hips and stomach, coaxing her to lie back. Her legs fall open immediately, instinctively. _It would have been the_ _right thing to say no,_ Mark considers when he scoops his hands under her thighs, tilting her up a little and making the lower half of her body more accessible to him. But that’s the thing: he can _never_ say no to her.

Addison mumbles his name when he first flicks his tongue against her, the start and stop of the four letters interrupted by a gasp. Mark is used to hearing it when they are in any number of compromising positions, but it is different now. _Mark, Mark, Mark._ It used to be verification that she didn’t want this to stop, just his name in between moans and directives – _yes, right there, keep going, harder,_ and whatever else Addison breathlessly and sometimes incoherently mutters when she is close to climaxing. She didn’t want it to _stop_. Mark has thought for a while now that maybe Addison doesn’t want it to _end_ , and he absolutely loathes himself for thinking that, for creating some sort of spun-sugar reframe in his head, for analyzing the words spoken and unspoken.

“It always feels so good with you…” Addison whispers now, eyes fluttering closed when the tip of Mark’s tongue presses more firmly against her. “Mark…”

“We’re good together,” he replies quietly. He can’t believe this is who he has become sometimes, that lust and physical responses have opened up space for love and _emotional_ responses. Now he just… _thinks_ things about her and sometimes _says_ things to her that feel entirely ridiculous. It’s automatic though; it’s rare that he can stop himself from thinking what he thinks and saying what he says when it comes to her.

“ _Yes_ …” Addison says, heading tipping back. _We’re good together_. It could be that she is in agreement. Or it could just be that Mark has finally curled the two fingers he has been unhurriedly moving inside her. He flicks his wrist just once, and Addison thrashes hard, legs and hips moving as she strains for more contact, for more of Mark. She’s imploring and insistent, now absolutely writhing – the way she always gets at this point. Her polished toes flex when Mark purposely slows down and resorts to tracing lazy circles with his tongue – _Mark, please, please, please_. _Mark._

_We’re good together…yes._ But now is not the time for clarification. Mark speeds up the motion of his fingers and lips, working her into a frenzy and driving her closer to the edge. He keeps her there for as long as he can, until she’s begging him to let her come. And then he pushes her over. Again and again and again until she’s gasping for breath. 

“Still feel good?” Mark asks afterwards. He grabs a throw pillow off the couch for each of them, and he can’t help smirking cockily as he lies down next to her. He rubs a hand over her side, aware of the muscles surrounding her ribs expanding and relaxing while she works to regulate her breathing. He swears he can see the relief in her eyes. She needed that, apparently.

“Mmm, yeah. You were there, and, well, _responsible_. You know exactly how good I’m feeling. You should join me now though…” Addison grins in a cheeky way and moves a hand between them. Her fingers are soft as they curl around him, her thumb brushing his skin, applying pressure in a way she knows he loves. “So that I can make you feel good, too.”

Something is wrong though. It’s _been_ wrong for Mark, from the second he first tasted the warm flesh between Addison’s legs that he’s become so familiar with; he was able to mostly file the worry away in order to efficiently work his lips and fingers over her though. Normally, just _thinking_ about pleasuring her is enough to get him hard, and _actually_ pleasuring her has him throbbing to the point of near-painfulness by the time he scrambles back up her body to push inside her.

“Addie…” Mark taps his fingers to her stroking hand, and he gently pushes her hand away from the limpness between them. His cheeks feel hot with humiliation. He can’t remember the last time this happened. Maybe a night when he had too much to drink? It’s been years though…he never has this problem. And he has certainly never had this problem when he’s with _her_. “I think maybe…” he tries to figure out what to say, but he goes silent when Addison’s eyes start to water.

“Am I doing something wrong?” She asks, voice small and brittle. 

“No. God, no. It’s not you at all. I think I just -”

“What’s the matter then? Not interested in fucking me anymore now that it’s not a secret? Is the thrill gone for you?”

“You know that’s _not_ true,” Mark replies angrily. The coldness of her words – the absolute immaturity – shocks him, makes his chest tighten. “Seriously, Addison? How can you even ask me that?”

“I’m…I’m sorry.” Her tears spill over now, a river of shiny dampness on her cheeks, and then of course Mark feels apologetic, too. He thinks it isn’t really fair that her crying is an automatic trigger for him to console her, to ask for forgiveness. But it’s just one more action and reaction he no longer has any semblance of control over.

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“I’m so embarrassed…” Addison rolls away, twisting onto her other side so that she is no longer facing him. Her hands come up, shaky as they cover her face. “I’m sorry…”

“Why are you embarrassed?” Mark lightly places an arm around her, and when she doesn’t fight the gesture, he lets the weight of it sink into the dip of her waist. “I’m the loser who apparently needs a pill to make this happen.” He tries to weave humor into his voice, and thankfully, Addison does choke out a short laugh at this remark. “Red…it really, _really_ isn’t you. I think I’m just tired…like, mentally. And physically, I guess – I didn’t get much sleep last night. _But_ if you want me to go down on you again so that you can keep feeling good, trust me: I’m more than happy to.”

“It’s okay.” She glances over her shoulder at him and offers a small, teary-eyed smile. “I don’t have any plans for tomorrow other than my morning surgery – assuming I get the rest of the day off – but I need to be able to walk, and if you keep doing what you’re doing with your tongue, I might not be able to. You should...you should probably head home though in a bit.” Addison tunnels out from under his arm, and pulls herself into a sitting position. “I have a lot I need to do before tomorrow.”

Mark reluctantly sits back up, too. “I can stay, if you want.” He reaches out for her discarded sweatpants, and hands them back to her to put on. “Or I can wait while you do whatever you need to do, and then you can come back to my place.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

Mark traces a finger through the rug beneath them, drawing figure-eights in the hand-knotted wool. Addison’s insistence on staying by herself is an anchor dragging him down. _So your answer is, “No, I don’t_ want _you to stay with me,”_ he thinks.

“Okay. Well, in the meantime…” Mark finally peels his eyes off the rug, and glances back at her, hoping his expression appears pleasant, impervious. “Just make sure you don’t throw any crazy plans into your half-planned day.”

“I think I already hit the ‘crazy’ quota this weekend.” Addison grins weakly. “What would I do that’s crazy?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugs. “It was mostly a joke, but people tend to act impulsively when a life-changing event takes place. You know: crisis minus the _midlife_ thing. Buy a sports car, knock down a wall in your house to start renovations you haven’t thought through, a new hairstyle…stuff like that.”

“I don’t have an _Eat, Pray, Love_ thing or a long hike planned. I promise.” 

Mark grins at her response, and also because something has just occurred to him. “I’ll try not to judge for crazy purchases though…remember I got that motorcycle after my mom died?”

“Oh, _do_ I.” Addison rolls her eyes. “I was soooo pissed at you. And then Derek and I…” she swallows noisily. Even just saying her husband’s _name_ feels like it is cracking her heart wide open. Derek has colored nearly every memory since her early twenties. “We yelled at you – mostly in emails and texts – until you returned it. I think I texted you like every twenty minutes.”

“I remember. It was incredibly annoying…but appreciated, I guess, because you were right. And so was he. My stupid self would have crashed that thing immediately. But hey, Addison…” Mark nervously exhales. “I know you didn’t get to talk to Derek for long, but does he know the whole story?”

She shakes her head. “No. We haven’t exactly had a lengthy conversation yet. And even if…even if it _had_ just been one time, I don’t think he wants to fix it. The marriage, I mean.”

_You told him it was just one time. That I was just here. And you didn’t know how it happened._ Mark remembers her saying this last night in between sobs. And he wonders if that’s the story she intends to stick with.

“And…how do you feel about the not fixing it part?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” Addison says, which sounds more like _I don’t want you to know_ in Mark’s head. “I promise I won’t do anything crazy though,” she adds, changing the subject. “But, you know…I really do feel like I could pull off blonde hair.” She raises a hand and playfully fluffs some of the tresses near the side of her head.

“You could, but for what it’s worth, I like you as a redhead. About the other thing though...are you sure you want to be alone tonight?”

Addison nods. “I’ve spent many nights sleeping alone in this house in the past few years. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m saying you don’t _have_ to sleep alone tonight, if you don’t want to.”

Mark watches as she nods again, chin lifting and dropping persistently. “I’ll be fine,” she tells him. “I promise.”

And that’s that. They exchange a hug – a long one – and then Mark is leaving again. They do not talk about any plans; there is no _see you tomorrow_ , no _see you later this week_ , no _I’ll_ _call you tomorrow night_. It is just a goodbye. Nothing more.

“Wait. Actually…” Mark starts to say when his driver pulls away from the curb. He flagged down a cab not too far from the brownstone, and grumpily provided his address. But something else has occurred to him. And he hesitates – he _does_ hesitate – but then he finishes the thought: “Can you drop me at the corner of York and Seventy-Eighth instead?”

It is a bar Mark has gone to from time to time, a hole-in-the-wall place he imagines will eventually become _trendy_ , given the influx of young people filtering into apartments in this neighborhood. It’s quieter this evening, but Mark stays long enough that he ends up leaving with a woman, wavy-haired and full-lipped. She is too young, probably just a hairsbreadth past being able to provide valid identification for the whiskey they consumed. _Not an appropriate choice_ , Derek and Addison would have said before…before _everything_. The woman came up to _him_ though. _At least there’s that_ , Mark thinks. It still makes him feel dirty, the vast age difference and the fact that there is probably zero overlap when it comes to their general life experiences, but feeling dirty is better than exploring any of his other feelings at the moment.

And it turns out he can still get it up just fine when it’s not his best friend’s wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References/Nods to Various Episodes (a lot in this chapter)
> 
> A few PP references, circa seasons 3 and 4: Susan Grant’s job was described as running “the family office.” I want to say there was another time it was stated that Susan was Bizzy’s social secretary, but that could be wrong. At one point in S3 Addison said that Susan had worked for her family for twenty years. Obviously, no one ages in these damn shows, but by that point Addison would have been in her early 40s, so presumably Susan began working for the family in some capacity when Addison was in her early 20s. 
> 
> Yo, DID Addison play a musical instrument/was she in high school band? Was there ever a reference to this? It feels like a very “Addison Thing,” regardless of the answer (if yes, I picture her with the flute or clarinet). She mentioned having braces and a lisp while in high school, so obviously she probably didn’t have, like, a Brooke Davis/whoever experience in those 4 years. And with the upbringing Addison had…she absolutely would have been forced to learn an instrument or two, whether she wanted to or not.
> 
> The motorcycle is a teeny-tiny nod to when Derek told Meredith in Grey’s 1x08, “The scar right here on my forehead…that’s why I don’t ride motorcycles anymore.” Derek is truly the LAST person I can imagine on a motorcycle, but…mm-kay, sure. Mark on a motorcycle at least feels within the realm of possibility for me (and is, uh, also a really nice image to picture).
> 
> Addison to Richard, Grey’s 3x15: “I dyed my hair blonde the day after Derek moved out. Change is good. Your marriage is over. You’re starting over. So am I.” Her hair will stay red though for this fic. :)
> 
> Addison told Derek it was just “one time” with Mark. A future episode of Private Practice disputed this. Grey’s 3x01: “It was one time. I know that’s what people say. I know that’s what always gets said, but it...I don’t even know how it happened. I don’t know what I was thinking. He was just here.” And the brownstone doors are double arched ones and some sort of shade of light green. 
> 
> Grey’s 2x18, Mark/Addison/Derek elevator scene (all the heart eyes and angst when Mark’s knuckles brushed over Addison’s cheek – like, so lightly that it’s more like his fingers are just hovering there – and how her eyes followed the movement of his hand):   
> Mark: “How come you can forgive her but not me?”  
> Derek: “I didn’t forgive her. And with you I have no obligation to try.”
> 
> Grey’s 3x03, Mark to a very flustered Addison: “We’re good together.”
> 
> Also, congratulations to myself for the least-classy line I have ever ended a chapter with. When it comes to everything post-affair and Mark and Addison potentially living together, I’ll ultimately be deviating from canon, but hopefully some canon compliance is still recognized throughout when you’re reading this. I do want to honor the fact that these two are both idiots who are too scared to communicate their feelings and what it is they actually WANTED and NEEDED from each other. I don’t think they had many lets-sit-down-and-talk conversations while they lived together (if any at all), which, if they had, perhaps the outcome would have been different.


End file.
